A Pound of Feathers

She wears her geometry in seldom contraries. Masks undone. At the base of the skin. The blade referring. To dead machines. In pales comparisons. Of the apologies we've become. The pistol in the bullet. Debating the structure of the wound. The weight of the bandage. Pressure enough. To stop the bleeding.

She wears people in shapes. Calm documentaries. Confident within their system of pulleys. That they can lift the heaviest of their empty boxes. Trying on the the uniform. Forlorn at the prospect. Of deciding. If it's real. Or if it ever was.

Her scissors paused on the arm of a paper doll. Just one. So many. That button already pressed. Just waiting. For the afterward.

What happens when everything already has. Happened. What use is the wolf in the story. Without a child to eat.

What good is a villain without a hero.

Therein is my dilemma. The woods to her house are dark. But it's magnificent. That I can't see where I'm going.