She bruises easily, she says “I don’t know why.” “I’m like the monarchy, they just won’t let me die.” She pinches at her skin, “do you see what I mean?” It’s almost paper thin, transparent and clean.
She comes up from the dirt, born just ready to die. Tugs and tears at her shirt, fixes the cloth like a tie. Changing each mask within each new realm and yet she still asks, “Who put Bella in the Wych Elm?”
Wishing for the end since around ‘96, calling the reaper a friend, “there’s no problem he can’t fix.” “I had it all but at what cost? I see no familiar face.” “Every person I know is lost, in life’s dreadful marathon race.”
She comes up from the dirt, born just ready to die. Grits teeth against the hurt and keeps her eyes on the sky. Still she juggles her tasks and she steers at the helm, and yet she still asks “Who put Bella in the Wych Elm?”