After Everything

Her wine in little baskets at her hips. Her grace directly apportioned. Busy vaginas pollinating faces. Fingers. Lips. Sorting the skeletons that accompany these modest disasters often termed happiness.

It's like I've never slept. Been staring at the world from the beginning. The art gone from it. Every stroke a cliche. Empty placeholders for. Because I've looked too long. For saving in the demons.

I'm under. below the flame. Last lies burning off in a boil of skin. The wax forming. shapes of touch conceding to the molds we've laid out for them.

Filling.

Bad dreams. Communicating. The tatter of the dolls. She still sleeps with. Still names as if anyone would recognize.

Their faces. Let alone their names. Or how she still finds them in a sea of broken faces.