pity, they whispered. she could have been beautiful.
scraped elbows and
tattered knees
drowning in a lake of iridescent oil
shivering at the sensation of your skin being
cleaved apart.
scalpel, please.
cut me cleanly.
is that really so much to ask?
have you ever cried so hard that you've gagged?
shower scalding hot
blistering
your shoulder blades
sighing when the blade comes down.
once more, i suppose.
black and blue
and sometimes yellow.
itching fingers and barn doors—
the cadence of a funeral
procession
in scorching august heat.
ashen eyelids and
battered bones
sighing along with the cicadas
burning your fingers with hot glue
and curling irons.
it is the witching hour
and you are one.
she's beautiful, they whispered.
how pitiful.
