Her voice is a harp
singing all the wrong notes and
she's just like the girls you stick pins in.

Rinsing with vigor
soap off a shadowless head
lets it sting her eyes, like she’s trying to forget.

A forfeit of mind
knowledge that could have been but
“is” never happened, “could”s just a word.

It’s absurd, I think
with a face made of ivory
she sees no irony in freelance.

Chances don’t sell new
but she’s trying to make do
Cut her hair off just to feel a pulse.

Inside nothing’s left
but crashed “can’t”s and “won’t”s she heard
in a hollow tomb, “could”s just a word.