A Little After Eleven

seldom comes on crooked heels. swimming softly in open fists. no funerals. nor weddings. not celebrations at all. these sweet restraints. licorise handcuffs chew their way through my skin. I'm not even there. My breath. The parachute to that empty dress. I can't prove I've ever worn.

woken up. by the birds in the tree outside. those small windows let so much in. the sheets. folding in meager orgams across my face. as morning dreams pretend i've slept enough. to know.

i've been the alternative. I've been the answer. to questions they'd never asked. eager lungs sucking down the air that's left. Between pages still untruned..

I'm a fossil. A remnant. An instrument of their evolution. To be dug up.

I'm history. An indicator of all things lost.

A little after eleven all these poisons lose their appeal.