Actionable Variances of The Golden Ratio

They all go away. As sad little girls with their torn dresses about their ankles. Raped by their own expectations. Admonished. Then resurrected. As women.

Authority figures in forgetful pants. Lost faces she'll never see again. Eyelashes. Tiny specks of art drawing on her cheeks. In wishable losses. The tornado of her eyelids debating the merits of destruction.

They all go away. Drugs wear off. Condoms harden. Flesh exposed sours. Even quicker once bitten. Her fruit gathers in damp baskets. Her fruit grows in her panties and so it dies there. A hush of parachute wishing it knew when to open.

She's already fallen. That far.

She's doesn't want to be caught.

The habits of angry men are her fortune in a lottery of wasted skin.

She's stubborn. As stubborn as any lover is after years negotiating loneliness.

Let her fall.

She doesn't want to saved.

Deciding happiness by the weight of feathers. Hunting dogs with blood on their breath take off their collars and surrender to the hunted.

The slope of solitude like a queasy metaphor about to vomit. She was there with them. A doll without eyes. A god without disciples. A snake without an apple.

She was as whole as she'd ever been with nothing inside her.

Falling. Not wanting to be caught.