Saturday 10/31/2009 01:31:00 AM

Tendencies she said as she crawled inside the wet mask. Of clay to harden. Of brittle things to crack. She shuffles through the fission. Impotent vampires colliding with the monsters we mistake for ourselves.

All that I remember. Is just this. That the fire caught up to the ladder we were escaping on. That the hands on those dolls were fixed. No matter how steep the stairs they descended.

If I could color it all in. Dead things filling those obvious outlines. Scales on the skin. Measuring. For the missing pieces.

Years she confessed. Wasted counting the steps to nowhere. Their faces like ink. Their touch like paper. And nothing left to say.

The proof of her guilt. The machine spoiling her skin. Her defense. The tendencies of atoms. To split.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.