she was pale-limbed and spread so perfectly like a story waiting to happen:
reminiscent of a butterfly dead in its cocoon that may have had
hope breathed onto it like life, full and bursting
but then reality dragged it down, stuck its wings together
as it thrashed and thrashed
and never really experienced the world the way it was supposed to.

the police officer that had found her thought it was a tragedy,
but the doctor performing the autopsy simply looked upon her corpse
as another matchstick in his matchbox.
there was no difference, between this dead girl and the next, to him:
it was all a matter of perspective.