Leaches and Lions

Gentle parasites. Lap up the bones. Puddles of when we still mattered to anyone other than ourselves. Long ropes with small knots at each end. Pretending to know the distance between the person and the skeleton. Time is acute. As sharp an angle as there is. Flesh is obtuse. Wide open and hungry to be fed. An ugly pattern. A series of numbers. Each one elaborating on the last. A sequence. A manic progression. The physics of truth more knots than strings.

The ladder perched just beneath the glass. Open windows ripe with rapunzels unwilling to let down their hair. The vortex. Howling with if. The studio of skin awash in a sea of contrition. Every color too much. Every pencil broken.

She could wear the flames just as she would any crown. Like a preacher low in the pulpit. Willing to burn to save the flock. She could scream. Like no one is listening. Fury as precise as any algorithm. That it's lonely trying to be what they want.