Poetry’s carved into her flesh,
intertwined with her ribs
and parasitic on her brain, the softest ***** now that her thrashing chest hardened.
It’s the thorn of a plastic rose, jabbing her distinct print, and
analogies crawling down to her jaw line,
sprawling at individual forks of two points; it was always only two.
Melodic qualities burgled her mind to
exist in ubiquity throughout her pores
and soiled strands of hair pinched with a tie ten centimeters from the root.
Poetry, disobedient and sovereign,
lived to spell a testimony
individual to her since no one breathed her air.
