she knows words that create a stumbling orphan,
awake at her first funeral
and who was she besides the thud
under a fist.
the worldslows at his third elegy
he tells her how.
to not fight about small things because they eventually bloom
bigger, like rosebuds, like water hitting pavement..
lives are nothing but parallel bruises
behind her eyes, like bolts of stuck
like rain on her face.
///water looks beautiful on your lashes///
and the colour black;
she understands that a girl
falls down alone.
he knows she has taunted death too long,
made peace with razors.....
if she goes on, if she dares,
on sheer buoyancy, she will enter
that lovecraftian place
where stopping murders the meaning;
where the point of contact shimmers
light she feels is blindness.
[that was close.
she murmurs, and counts
off her small distances away from an eloquent scene.
the swift electricity opens her wrists.
the blue stones drown her in pretty sockets.]]]
she closes closeness into her dirty eyes.
she becomes a child repeating the bad word,
and he watches her mind, a spotlight.
inside the spotlight............
trains and wreckage
she smells her hurrying body.
for once, if i can leave enough tracks,
i can hurt you back.. ...
:voice, God, simultaneous:
*and so he remembers
standing on a blur, an apology
made of graves.*
what did she see in God's eyes?