Patience with Mirrors

The obvious was loitering as it often does between the impossible and the thread. Just a hair on her ass. The razor hadn't reached. The accelerator in her vagina. The motor in her thighs. All idling obnoxiously. At the thought of ordinary time travel.

I want the butterfly to sneeze. Step on every mosquito. Come back. To a strange world that doesn't remember me.

Press the key into the hole. Rotate. Vigorously. Flood the engine. With stories about little girls with pink fingernails and the toys that convinced them it mattered. The teddy bears with broken button eyes. Staring from the corner. Blind demons with claws made of why. It knows. It finds. The knot. That slipped the needle.

The stitches chasing her waning grin. As she make puns about cellars. Dead bulbs. In Broken lamps. And how many little girls it takes to change them.

Too many she says.