Hating the Mime

Caution signs and choking trumpets. Play tertiary songs below her dress. The math pressing hard on her diaphragm. As she solves for x. The clown comes in stutters. Fractured words fumble with the flesh. The circus follows.

Pandora with her walking sticks. Navigates a profound darkness. Pandora with her nearly empty box. Wraps it up. Gives it as a gift.

The edge moves closer as she notices how sharp. Her fingers all geometry. Her voice only algebra. She recognizes the numbers. But not what brought them here. She converses with the stairway. Convincing it to let her go down.

The world in gulps. The moment in sips. Crayons without their labels. Coloring in. Wolves feverish with morals. Girls mad with men. Her body is a factory. Making toys for strangers. Her touch is a fraction. Of what she might've been.

Pale faces on the assembly line. Blankly looking back at the pieces which became them. A paradox of answers for which there is no question. Other than us.