She thought of it once
over the edge, sand stung cheeks
feel a chill and a thrill
and inch a way into dark.
She tried it once
glass
glints of excitement
painting stucco relief
on marble arms.
She ****** it up twice
rising through fog
coming to rest on a cold plated bed
shatter spines and splinters that drip on the floor,
leave more behind and
flirt with a pharmacist's smile.
Pity is empty and love is a chore.
She looks at you with eyes that
question your motives, sarcastic, acerbic
though you're not at fault.
Shake her if you feel the need,
by the shoulders, wrench the anguish
from your broken chest, smother her with it,
knot it into her hair and make her wear it,
a chewed up straw hat that makes summertime choke.
You can't do this anymore.
She likes it too much.