There is a crease breaking
in fractals across her forehead
lightning over a pillowcase,
the best sex you’ve ever had,
with people too crazy to date seriously.
The room is pressurized
for other people’s comfort,
she’s pressed in too tight like red-hots
for eyes on gingerbread people,
keeping up appearances.
She doesn’t suffer storms to brew,
her heart is beating too fast blood streams
lacking eddies, fluttering into her system,
never not nervous. She boils
water without a kettle
too many things scream these days
she’d rather light the house on fire
with a million forgotten soup pots.
She prefers feral, loose-leaf tea
dog-paddling wildly around her cup pacing
from rim to rim draining too strong as it roils
powerless against fragile, impenetrable ceramic.
The sky is falling
in booming blue panes all around the house
like patterned blouses on big women careening
at speed towards the jewelry counter
at the last job she couldn’t hold.
If you don’t go outside you can hide what’s inside
broken from too many explosions,
she is a ghost town that cannot be resettled.
A salt flat so shallow, love starves on the expanse of her.
She is some war on your history test, one you forget
but when graded on a scale it never matters,
and she sets the curve.
Tearing at each page she whips
through books of tedious prose,
confused at the quiet imagery which claims to be
baby-soft but hangs in the air like the remains
of a rioting feather bed in movies about sleepovers
she only pretended to relate to.
The sun also rises,
pretty golden beams pouring out
across prairies, viscera behind tonsils
flooding her mouth with too many words,
out through her nose hot like pennies
that remind us we’re still alive.
Her world is prescribed in capsules
like colored eggs hiding in church gardens
she never attended,
like excited children moving too fast
they go down hard.
She should probably eat something.