steam white rising from pale corpse.
she is lying on my floor. masque-
a fluorescent and pink comes from one angle
dispersing with the white,
suffering it like pushing into thin torso
of her; lying prostrate and tight.
oh irony-as it should really be
loose as a body
and not tied to earthly

stench, but autonomous, perfume covered
frail fingers bony but soft
as an earth worm.
your father is the slyly face smiling.
shyly you steal his coat and dine with it
until it is less fashionable.
but interested in mother's dress
I slit razor edges touch to soft thigh
and let the porcelain tub fill.

watching as red penetrates clear blue
foaming over the sides, it is me.
I am drowning in it.
I have been for three years now,
temporal and nightmarish
and prone to panic like the roaches.
young girl tying herself in knots
her stomach is my stomach.
her bones are my bones,
and her cheek is red.
and don't I feel like Oedipus?
and don't I wish for mother and sister?
but envy is such a thrill.
and envy is what fills this tub
as I taste blood
and disperse with red,

a pale corpse colored of steam
penetrating the torso in a dreamlike
quality.
futility;
I will never be, fertile.
I will never be porcelain white skin,
but mud.