Needle and Thread

It's beginning. The fetid orbit of damsels distressed. Failed constants on their impervious arc across empty atmospheres. A million fingers grabbing. Each one with a thousand paper cuts. The blade on my time machine poking holes in our flesh.

It's beginning to be over. It's a long process. Burnt dolls struggle into their torn dresses. Giant grins wear the weight of so much nothing. Paper jewels hang heavy on her chest. She writes to the future in brief letters to herself in the third person. Where she confused the tense and tries to explain why she's sorry for what hasn't happened yet. She tries not blame the science embedded in her cells. But it's hard to hide things from yourself.

Occasionally she'll receive a letter in return. she marvels at herself. The stranger who has taken her place. She's inclined to write about the beginning. And compelled to notice the end. She assumes they must converge some place where internal time machines cannot penetrate. She looks at herself years from now and wonders if it's true. That the doll can be still be mended after the all the stuffing has been removed.