She paints herself in shadows,
dabs her wrists with night,
black lines her eyes -
eyes that shine ice blue and cold.
She razorknifes a thin red line
down her chest, and removes it -
that sappysweet horror of a thing,
beating in its ignorant rhythm
She places it on the clock makers desk,
among the brokenspun hands -
unanimated hands, unanimated heart.
Across the room
that antique chest, leather bound
is pulsating with fervor.
She just loosens the latch,
the lid flips open
and a puddle of ink
crawls across the floor
and up her leg,
shoving it in
and sewing it closed.
She smiles in the mirror,
feels good to be home.
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