The Center of the Flame

small tacks in big holes. or so she testifies. to the solvency of corpses. as her funeral proceeds.

the blood we waste on healing would look prettier on the floor.

she knows everything. and nothing. like all women do. enthusiastic potions turn pigeons into eagles.

the sacrifice in centimeters. the consequence is miles. neglected flowers toil the vase they've been left inside. thick windows. and wolves disguised. presuming I can see what isn't obvious.

stale dresses. and empty pens. flirting with a future. that has yet to occur.
footprints on my spine. a trembling inferno of choices. forged from ordinary flesh.