Heavy minutes rhyming on her white wall,
slowly falling down like trickles
of blood pooling around everybody’s eyes,
around everybody’s smiles,
but everybody smiles.
Her fingers walk across the marble floor,
nails scraping and tongues bending
like half-empty dresses hung inside a closet.
Boots, now worn, lie sullenly dry
filling up with ghosts with small sized feet
just like hers.
Long corridors and black windows
and sunny reflections that stare out at the moon
are drawn on her cheeks and smudge repeatedly.
Lace hanging from a bedpost no one sleeps in,
a corpse in the cradle and red curtains that
Clawed to the roof,
she smothered her neck in chalk marks that resemble a hopscotch floor
and tied her hair into a braid around her
inordinately long neck.
She eats too much and spits it out,
her tongue burns and secrets crawl out.
The hands glide across the surface
until she reaches for her own,
dry and uninspired
she writes on the bathroom floor.
Shining and shimmering,
hiding in robes,
wet hair curls down cold shoulders and grins etch across
several faces on the same neck.
Typing, tired and infinitely tangible:
who’s that shadow waiting in the cradle?