Mind drifts in pieces
delicate veins of butter melt
pancake mix onto the pane of the window
as if bone marrow had been stirred and removed of its lumps;
my skull turned on its side and
down the side of the wall, wailing
across the floor to the soles
of my bare feet.
These are not tears, clear and translucent, but
thick and congealed with blood invisible.
Genetic recipe that called for essence of vanilla and deliquesce sugar
where rogue hands added instead a stealthy dose of cochineal
on the grubby wings of an unseen parasite feigning symbiosis to a host.
A dash of red gives rise - a butterfly blush to the cheeks
for ghost girls.
They said it would become me.
That boys don't favour alabaster.
Stains can stick to hands forever - shame comes in all sizes and hangs heavy on
her coat-hanger bones will bend and bow like cupid's
and she will bow her spine to the floor
and how her proud relatives will learn that no matter how much calamine lotion they