Nearer to the Avalanche

Fragile masks embark upon her face. In nervous sprints. In calm marathons. The decapitated devil collects his horns. Grinning all the while. The child chases her nightmare too long after waking. It's the weakness of touch to want more. It's the wisdom of skin wait for it to come to us.

The clown. The ghost. The skeleton. Characters in a satire called the self. Laughing at everything. Disappearing too soon. Emerging from moist grave desperate for fresh skin.

The porcupine in her eye beginning to make sense. As all those needles found their target.

Seeing she soon discovered was merely a consequence of blindness.

Corpulent cockroaches in the corners of her breath. All her poisons only make them stronger.