you don't mind the glass beneath your feet
or the bomb strapped to your chest
ticking second by second like your very own
metronome trying to harmonize the noise
inside your head
the gag inside your mouth feels real to you
but no one steps aside to help you untie
the purpled hands behind your back
and you wonder why no one can see
all the pretty girls strung to banisters
with their lipsticked mouths gaped with
muted screams and mascaraed eyes
bulged by Death's medusa-gaze
at the top of the staircase is a noose with
your name - Jane
and as you tiptoe up the steps, the faces
of the corpses blend and coalesce
into one generic image - a girl no one
remembers beyond her death - and you
realize once your neck snaps you're nothing
more than a statistic
the rope tightens and you join
the data set - the only place you've
ever felt you belonged