Spilled all over the kitchen floor, she found
her hair toasted by mother's oven. One by one, they
could not but slipped out her scrawny fingers.
Little Billy out breaking windows again. Nothing set
well that evening. That Mr. from downtown bar used to
tell her to come play. Her tongue still wet
from the ice lolly and she couldn't help it. Maybe
she's a bloody thing.
Jessica always says, "that's not fast enough." But
she's into speed. And to get the hell out. The funny
thing is, he never complained. Wrist wrap-around would
be the latest fad. So long he's done.
There were the blue ones, the tiny whites and
the occasional yellows. Sprout from her toes like
violets gone wrong. The water on her palm soon to dry.
At the sound of smashed glass, she waves
hello to nosy neighbours.
Blue black painted her mascara. Women in whites look
funny under those lights. Maybe they are missing
some wings. "It sure is freezing in here." Her chest
tightened at every breath she hated. She broke the bed.
But she swallowed them all without a wink, together
with the gathered dust. And the fearless that
was never offered. She was cornered-frame by whispers
from lovers that weren't. Watched the ink melt. Thought
she would never be found.