she wore a shell
a diaphonous spiral
that draped her
like paper mache
over the tchotckes
in her effervescent heart

She came from violence, She bit her lips and swallowed the blood as flesh rearranged itself. She spit her teeth out one by one and washed the charred skin daily to keep wounds fresh. When her molten heart was complete, it was pretty, as if it wasn’t dangerous, a bubbling of soft and hot that brings tears and seers flesh.

the shelf life
of inconsistency
as isotopes
fade
in a shower
of electron bleeding

She has so many secrets under words and intricately embedded in tone and texture that she spoke things she didnt know. She is tender but she can break poems with her fingertips and watch the blood trickle over the palm of her hand. Someone has made her softer and more sinful giving her an allure of purity with a little dirty hue.

where does light go
when it fades
from serendipity
to the masticated remains
in greeting cards
exchanged by strangers

She soon recognizes the illusion was herself all along. Don’t blink.

EC is the answer to what is perfection in prose