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within a sepulcher

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We will all die one day?doesn’t that bother you?
Her fingers tremble in the sheets of icy water;
She floats through the fields of lilies, bright curls flying
The phone rings?seventeen seconds of speech, and then
Nothing; there is nothing left but the silence.

Nails dig into soft palms, fingers bruised with plaster
She recomposes and straightens her fiery tendrils;
To pack a bag ?books and clothes and money
And sits on the wobbly porch, porcelain expression turned to ivory
When they come to take her away, she is ready

Love at an asylum?she laughs; He picks away at ivory exterior.
They dance in the hallways, and her paper fingers
Do not feel like paper any longer.
All good things must come to an end, she thinks
And waits for the day the world burns.

He kills his roommate?crash of glass, pool of blood.
Thunder claps in the headmaster’s golden eyes; love in an asylum?
She laughs. They’re all a bit messed-up.
Messed-up people don’t deserve happiness.

His shadow lingers in the doorway, hints of peppermint
The air tastes like stale smoke and second chances
His face is gaunt, bones visible through garments
Silver bullet pushes through the air?
(Love in an asylum?she laughs, it is all a dream.)

He wasn’t supposed to shoot, he wasn’t supposed to?
This is not a fairytale.
It slices through the sides of her skin, droplets of blood from her ear
The knife flies past her skin.

Three years, and then she sees clear:
Callie and Wren live in a white mansion?
They are a family of blinding smiles, silver spoons.




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