sometimes, she says,
my heart just
hurts.

she leans over and clutches
her ribcage in all the
wrong places. the bones
handle her fingers like
drawing straws, searching
for the longest.

her pupils are like ladybugs,
drowning on a leaf; she
is edible and she bites
her lip, searching for a taste,
a cling. a necklace on a
wire on a chain attempts
to strangle her and she lays it
on the nightstand when
he fucks her, suicide forgone
for something
better.

if your heart is a
doorway to somewhere
deeper and if your feet can take
you along a fate-planned path,
if your fingers are plots of
where you wish you were
and if your eyes are
windows to your soul,

then i am afraid, my dear,
that you are dying.

she stands up a little straighter.
the feeling, the pain,
she says, it always
passes.