The skeleton reaches to touch the remaining flesh. on the desert of her muscle. she says it's alright. That she can see. The bevel of the glass.
How it distorts. Those beautiful faces. The world tries her on. She doesn't fit. The worm inches through the tree.
Imagining each leaf is home. Never reaching it. The pebbles under her feet become boulders. The feathers on her back grow heavy. pretending the wings she'll never possess.
she shouts. at the angels and the demons. they're both to blame. for this chaos in heaven. she weaves her bricks from straw. to build her house. she warns me. it's irrelevant. how many wolves. or pigs. one is all it takes.
Her skin crawls back to her. In bloated patches. Empty and disappointed. That the world was too busy care. She has her attics. to fall back on. sweet candy houses. and burning witches. in a fairy tale of touch.
she has her lies to tell. magnificent lies. like melting butter. in a hot pan. everything burned by it. she measures the circumference of the devil's penis. by the spaces it leaves between her lips.