Pouting

Content prisoners worship the walls. Keeping them in. Keeping the world from finding them.

It's bland. This blade. Constantly stabbing. I bleed. The blood dries. And we start the cycle again. Scarves around her neck telling the time machine when to stop. Little rips in pantyhose creeping up.

The hours arrive in bottled passions. Frustrated stupors mixing with seldom and gin. She measures the moon by its distant from darkness. She weighs the truth by its empty wrappers.

Pencilled in maps and crayoned blouses. Dress up the world in places to visit. A time line of feathers disperse through the wind. While she imagines what the button would've looked like had it never been pressed.