The pavement dampened
With memory of morning’s rain
Autumn’s maple essence
The remnants of battered pumpkins,
The insides of its orange bulging pulp
The parts not sweet, the parts
That are not to be eaten by raccoons
The lace of frost so delicately entwined
around the
Dim light of a lamppost
As it flickers it goes dark, suddenly
Like the neglect of shop signs
She feels as though the ruby of her lips
Tremble
She must hide

Nostalgia…
A familiar golden tape
reverberating flashing lights,
Red and blues against the ashen parts of her palms
Looking down at the
The cerise paint drip when
it lands against the tile
And into the creases,
So much like a river…
Trickles
She is an artist,
The pale of her arm a canvas…
And the blade glistens
Against a sliver doused
In old fear
To feel the blade as
It so delicately, so aggressively
Searches for the remnants of
A distorted soul
How she’d press until she felt it

They had held her before, this same way
When they found her limp against
The burgundy rug
Stained in wine
and
Pink pills scattered as if
It were modern art
And they held her once more,
When her eyes watched the
Thinning surface
Of bath water,
The plug beneath the small of her back
Finding the curves of sanity
She had seen their blurred bodies
Distant voices
As they took her…

Bridge
Rusted, agonizing

The moon danced across the water
Like ribbons of silk
And she remembered her mother
Champagne glass against patio brick
The way she braided her hair outside
On the porch when it was summer
With the fly lamps and the crickets
And vanilla ice cream cones
As it dripped on her hand
Onto the bruises lining her arms

She remembered her father
The screeching of screen doors downstairs
As she stared at the pale yellow of
her bedroom ceiling
The auburn bottles
Smashed against off cream walls
With the dandelion painting
The way he whispered to her
The way the inside of those bottles
took away
His love for her

And him, she could see
His face
She remembered his touch,
When they danced
Like lovers across the sand
Until he became brittle
Against the embers of disease
And tubes were taped, thick to
The very brim of his nose
And his eyes became pools of
black
When the machine was turned off
When her heart
died

And the moon did paint the water
When she placed the paper
That resembled rosary beads
Softly
And she climbed atop the highest part

And when those blurred figures
Showed upon the rustic
Parts of bridge
With their notebook pages
Curled at the edges
And their yellow tape
And sirens
The moon no longer danced
Across the water
Rather it was caressed in sun
They knew
For the paper she left behind read
“You cannot find me now.”