she always thought that she would die
like marilyn, a still life of beauty, of release,
painted in pain and silk sheets,
and sometimes life does hold that image,
but never death.

she wasn't ready-
that’s what she tells me.
she doesn't tell me much, though.

gossamer skin wrapping bird bones
into a lithe bundle named vivica,
soft curls spilling
claims her head’s always spinning,
always swimming in the sea of pills
she swallowed

i hear her hollow voice
singing or sobbing- i can never tell,
but it plays softly every night,
sometimes in whispers,
a symphony of stories
she weaves about her past,
lulling me to sleep so easily,
and i dream of a sorrowful, lost, lonely family,
missing their melodic daughter, sister, mother,
missing their train wreck beauty queen,
missing a woman lost in time,
missing vivica.