she sits in grey wind wondering how the world still
knows she is alive, or dead? the fumes of old nocturnes
smoke demons in familiar twists. she hums nothing well...
good:: the same russian doll or christ like cull.
she told herself none or all of this is real.
how some words are terribly pretty when said,
but have no meaning. did your remember
to shut the skin and pale the door? did you put on
your best dishes that no one likes?
it isn't as if the white linen is ruined.
she shoves her mind down where her heart lived.
she keeps her elbows where no one can see them and
speaks like someone easy.
she opens her hands in disbelief.