The Mylar balloon shine face reflections gather and sneak into my late afternoon dread
reminding me of yesterday and other happier faces.
No more reminders, memories, sentimental attachments.
Constant invention, creation, more.
Now and here.
I cling to the jagged edges of this moment letting it slice my palms.
The nameless empress…
She bodiless, bobs.
Free of self loathing,
she lives in her head
and kills with her mouth
biting, gnawing venom truth she spits.
Until, he comes to her,
freezing her in pewter and silver.
He hangs her on a wall in a crowded room of baubles.
They look but do not see.
Until she comes to her
daring to break the glass and trace her petrified hair
leaving her scarlet for the empress gray.
She places her dirty, holed sleeping bag behind the Andy Warhol cardboard boxes.