The Truth Is

Choosing particles as her fingers come undone. Years unravel. Are discarded. Skin is permanent. Choosing. Pretending choices are hers. Defiant molecules. Barter with the nervous scientists drowning in her head.

One button. Maybe two. Opened. Then closed again. Gods in their highchairs. Vomitting us up. Choices. Wandering into her life. Drunk and disoriented. It all leads to pages torn and inkless pens. Nothing permanent except this skin.

Grim metal. Invisble carpenters welding. Random manias. Her clothes disappearing. Like clouds receding after the rain. Moist earth. Thick roots. Missing parameters void the equation. Only this skin parses to fill in the empty spaces.

When she was comes and goes. In silent songs of deaf gods. Toiling with the dead. She labels the grave. Empty for now.

Feasting with the demons she assumes the meat is fresh.

A lever. A fulcrum. A bit of physics. I try them all. Nothing works. Except the lies embedded in this skin.

The truth is. As frail as. The skin which protects it.