Perforations

The orchard rich in tunnelling despair. The ballerina. Her leotard torn. Her toes breaking. As she turns to look at the audience she never knew was there.

Dismal claps illuminate her traverse. As she hobbles over the hardwood. To a dressing room without a lock on the door.

Spreading the moons across skin. Navigating her cunt like churning butter. Digging for the solids. In so much useless liquid.

She tugged her shoes back on. Though she'd only just wedged them off. Blame the snow. Blame the weather. For convincing her to ignore it. The tiles filthy with where she'd taken them off. Sketches of her journey to go nowhere. She turned to look at him and said, it's star trek. A future we've always imagined, but will never see. All this skin. Every bit of it. Is cinema. Poorly written scripts that never give us names.

No heroes to worship. No villains to blame. Just the diseases that make us human. Fouling these blank pages.