Composing People

Green eyelashes on the ceiling. Look me down and up. I don't need walls to know where it must stop. The edge is always there. Cooing softly from its bottom.

There's always time for demolition. Rented lives are given back. And these walls grow new skins.

To wear the sight. A sheer skirt around my throat. As the hem is adjusted to match. How small I've become. It's all in the word. The squeeze of their buckle cinching tight around my thoughts. It turns every look to paper. Too delicate to be drawn upon.

And I'm left waiting to see again.

My heart constantly masturbating to the sound of itself. Offer me a predator. Something to run from.