Pavlov

The dead things in her gown. Repeating. Evident fairy tales. The dead things. Like heavy rings on her fingers. Making it hard to explain. The numbness. The liars on their high towers. Pissing down on what was almost real.

The funeral. In ardent ripples. Pulls the clown from the ritual. Big feet won't save me now. I see her in her seldom dresses. Imagining the world as it should have been. No dead things. Just crayons. Filling in the thick outlines.

No skin to peel away from this fractured skeleton. Just the meat we assume will feed us. No worries of broken bones. No bandages on open wounds. Just ruffles in her frilly dress. Placing its bets. On dirty windows.

Soft experiments on the hunger. Glorify the villains.