Proprietary Puppets

A thousand ants it takes to make one more. We rush for that paradise. Not convinced it is. So many gods to pray to. All of which are deaf. She writes in chalk. Her useless legs. Toiling with the prospect. Of never walking again.

The stories roil over her in cumming blankets of men. She wishes. Life could be that simple. Or that they could see it isn't.

Pedalling on her punctured tires. As if the road is reason enough. Beating the lessons out of the chalk. As if such a thing can be erased.

She says I don't know her and she's right. Little stacks of underwear. Positing ultimatums on her vagina. Maybe we've been here a thousand times before. And I still can't convince her to live.