Costumed flowers are the thinnest of wires,

Spun into the delicate threads of beings

Lighter than car keys, stagnant as they’re thrust into the lock,

into the ice and snow, into the fortress of warmth

Gouge at the door handles,

watch the heroine eat chips in a wedding dress,

handle the crumbs as they drip onto the floor.

The woods are calm this morning

growing from couch velvet, unwrinkled by the days’ moments

unraveling the knitting of wounds

sitting in a coat

banging upon the chair legs

scampering across the kitchen—

find her trying to save herself,

sorting through his text messages,

filling the voids in her ears with meaningless letters,

pushing her heart into the black of the iPad sleeve

The stingers are missing, the text

Shorthand with emoticons

is silent

grasping backwards, swiping in five different directions, sitting in on his past—

he has loved others, once

the moment is bubbling,

and the letters are worn and stale

they tell her to run

but her breath feels new, her heels lock

into the white of blankets

love reaches her neck, hanging in the roots of her hair

and she lies still.


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