My cousin’s hair was the shade
of eggshells, or snow
on a winter afternoon. Skin

pale porcelain under long
sleeve, hoodies and sweatshirts, jeans
tight on thighs, tense.

Trace of blood peeks
from under her sleeves.
Strawberry syrup, sweet nectar

dripping from pancake skin. Hot
like the burns from the radiator
she hugged as a child

thinking a warm friend.
Or the bug bite, poisonous
from a friendly looking spider:

hours in the hospital,
followed by angry car rides
to homes that weren't.

She didn't catch fire, she was
flames, melting
girl known for naked nails,

long legs under black jeans
and a hoodie in July. She slept
the days away in her room.

Stuffed teddy bear, razor
blades, no longer hidden
out of sight. There was

no one there to see.
For weeks she wasn't
seen, a putrid smell resulting.

Her bamboo plant left
wilting in the kitchen.
Spiders watch from far corners.