The center
hardens with time,
until broken,
forced apart
or forged
into something new.

You can pierce
the crying child
with your sharp
fingernails.
Scratch the face away
until there’s
innocent blood
underneath your
fingernails.

Without a face
there is no innocence,
without remorse
we burn the wings.

Naked torso
sprouts
dead vegetables,
buried remains
wilt and decay.

She follows
the river
to the bleeding mouth,
mumbles a prayer
under the bridge.