She folds her hands across her lap
and leans her head against the subway windows.
Recognizing the film playing
on the thin skin over her obsessive eyes.
They catch an elevator;
rising and relocating.
Watch them sit down into their velvet red thrones.
She rubs her wrists and
hears the sounds her chest makes as it twists.
Those ribs clawing themselves out
finding air outside her worn pages of skin.
Her throat walled itself up with dried crispy flowers
he picked with care and handed with callous intent.
And her mouth became a vase.
She knew, you do know that she knew.
Care slides down her legs like water from a shower.
Wrapping herself in personal newspapers
from last year.
Soaking your print, your loose language
with the affection she perspired.
When she was turning those sentences;
They became a bed time story
and the national anthem and
And then lies.
She holds up the context
as everlasting evidence.
Staying on the train
will only allow her to arrive at
boys often count to ten
and then stop.