mold spores sleep
in the blood of a girl
three floors and
a wing away, leaching
poison into her bones.
they will cut them out
in pieces, shine light
through them like
ice cores, and still
she will die. until then,
she is beautiful.

we look more or less
alike, shadows splitting
the spaces where ribs
should be. girls wrapped
in red stripes visit her,
reading poems, leaving
trinkets. I haven’t had
a visitor in weeks, and
probably won’t again.
across the hospital,
they send me ***** looks,

cursing the unfairness of
it all – she is beautiful and
she will die, I am ugly and
they might be able to save me.