There is a crease breaking in fractals across her forehead like 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, purely decorative, keeping up appearances.
She doesn’t suffer storms to brew, her heart is beating too fast blood streams lacking eddies, fluttering throughout her system, never not nervous. She boils water without a kettle too many things scream these days and 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. 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.