blood-blue filigree
scarlet crosshatching and
pale, translucent ivory
shaped the roadmap of her brief and brutal life
nothing beyond nor nothing past
wounding the world by wounding herself
sobbing at her own cruelty
this maimed soul, a mere waif
this prostitot
caught in some sad, fatalistic foreshadowing
fragile she is
not the eggshell, but the membrane beneath
conscientiousness outliving its usefulness
her heart, an icy pond in pale moonlight
beats in unclear echoes
she would feel it ache, but
she's forgotten what feeling means
there were no tricks
no blueprint of the way she was wired
she knew that by now
you can't fool people into loving you
but you can still be delicate and graceful
she hoped
even on the street's barren desert
she didn't know that this hope was just
another phase she grew out of
that a thing of beauty is only a joy
until the next one comes along
so she cried deep scouring sobs of the soul
her eyes a little racoony, and paused
with the whole world made of glass
the arc of her life leading nowhere anymore
in one thick adrenal instant
one protracted moment along the trail of nows
she did the unnatural deed
falling to the ground
if she could do this, she could do anything
the pain is all in her head, she knew
as if there were some other kind
but pain is pain only if you choose to suffer
there are a lot of funny kinds of love in the world
and whatever brute reckoning would be hers
such a promise of light there was
in this tentative, final act