The Stopwatch on Her Tragedy

The frenzied metropolis between her legs was going in so many different directions. Ants all over her picnic. The police of her frown threatening its protest. Pesticide in her smile. Mayonnaise skin.

Empty bread.

She'd never had a life, so she borrowed some of theirs.

She didn't know what to wear. So she wore nothing other than the world between her breasts. Empty trench coats to camouflage the hurt. Birthday candles on stale cake.

She closed her eyes, blew hard.

And waited. For her wish.