Backwards

The moment is deep and dark and frivolous. Bound to a nonexistent climax. A white dress gagged by the girth of her hole. The hole in all of us. The echo of dreams unfinished. The scrape of the thumb against the trigger. While targets taunt.

A heart is deep and dark and frivolous. A swollen charm clutching a broken neck. Some pale magic whose only wishes are of dying. A lie interrupted.

Dark and frivolous. Stern in its chaos. Secure in her long legs. Trivial in her helplessness. An antidote more dangerous than dying.

An excuse. An obituary. A woman. A man. Deciding. How hard it would be.

The kitten. Lost in its claws. The circumstance deciding for us. We're a work of fiction and an autobiography. We're words no one has said. We're asking when we should be demanding.

To be loved.

Tugging up on the collar of sleep. Counting the words we have left. A scream in her pocket. Looking for the zipper she doesn't know is there.