“Furnished Blush”

One slip, a falling trick, then she’s in his arms, a CRASH.

He traces her Picasso cheekbones. The back of his hand comes away, a smear of soft yellow glitter.

She frets about the smear. Do I still look alright? She fears.

It looks fine. But then the eyes. Can you see them? She asks. They follow her. There are so many.

He doesn’t know what to say. Can he make it up to her, in any way? He’s not sure what he did wrong.

“Corsets: Part Two”

binding history

a ghost in the fog

golden fruit

broken spinal

columns

of a war

a war of

blood and thorns

born of a war

lead paint

lead blade

lead pencil

black vines

of obsidian

made of war

orange sparrow

stuck to her

a war partridge

a partridge of war

rivers running

red rivers

made of battles

chaos rising

a ghost in the fog

binding history

a war of wounds

smudged bodies

the all-seeing eye

 

“Corsets: Part One”

rib cages

leather threads

threads

time cracking

cracking her

spine already

cracked

bound chest

leather health

buckled medicine

unlike vanity

vanity

wrought cages

rib cages

holes where

she should be

should be

straight and

narrow waist

bound chest

bound and binding

a contract with

herself with

herself

doctor’s orders

 

 

“Scrying Mirror”

Sometimes I do not think that I deserve to be loved.

I am strange,

paltry,

ugly.

I take swords to my chest, you see,

and I plunge them deep

whenever the corners of my mouth lift too high,

for my own liking.

I then pull them out and push them in again

and again

and again.

The pain of it lingers, though I stopped crying out a long time ago.

The pain of cracking my own chest open,

and hoping beyond hope that I like what I see.

And the hope that you, darling, like it too.