Backwards Palindromes

I had forgotten my own lies. In favor of empty rooftops. To sleep upon. Pull the darkness down from its cradle. Imagine the lid coming closed. On this foul pot of skin and bones. Had named each moon after the manner of its death. Unimaginably large masks falling from the sky. Landing in pinholes.

Pressing the cigarette to her lips she formulated a scenario. Tomorrow in deep breaths. Mouths wide open. Eyes closed. Memory manipulating the skin. Until every wounds is certain. It will never heal.

Affairs with bandages. Leave her bloodier than she began. Still she wears them. Hoping to be infected. By a better disease.

Her eyes like a camera. See nothing except the pictures. Frozen images of a world that moves much faster than she can. She closes the door. She breaks the lens. Only to herself more.

The flower falls. The petals wither. And she takes credit. For whatever french movie she's trapped herself in. The house blows down. The wolf is fed. A fairy tale she assumes. Until she slices open its belly. To find her time machine still ticking inside its intestines.

The dead man in her flesh. Insisting. There is still time enough.

to change.