Colorful Plaids

The door was open as I drew on it. In dried up marker. Small eyes in big glasses. Pretending to see. The wrinkles in their paper demons. Missing suns as the clouds fall from the sky. Lonely men with their faulty compasses. Still searching for the forest.

The window was cracked. As I poured the water over the cactus. They grow so slow. Just like us. Beating those clay pots with threats of life that never come to fruition. Just sharp spines. That charm me to touch them. Thrill this skin with bouts of blood that don't know how to count.

Years come and gone. Return in urgent pleats. Dead things wager the margins. Tall against this grey slab. Dense with saving. So much nothing.

She had always worshipped nothing. And been worshipped in return by it. She had always believed in the nothing. And had thought it obvious. That nothing was all the only constant.

Trimming her claws on smaller men she pondered the red. Heavy from the weight of too many saviors. She asked, has the sky gone dark or am I just blind again? I can see someone there, but I don't know who they are.

Oh, the short dress on her long legs. Permanent marker. Plastic stitches for paper wounds. The short dress. Well, it makes her strong. When weak is what she is. Bad dogs show their teeth. As she enters the closet. Bad dogs growl. As she takes those bones off their hangers.