The mirror cries long tears to the bus station
Her feet draw their mottled shapes on the
It is wet and cold.
In my mouth, there lies elegant blood
It spills in heady rushes from my
Bejewelled like the rich, wilting women.
-red, I say, it is on the screen. It pulls my tendons as
Prone strings. Stop it, I say, I am lost, you know, lost like
The words seized in memory but not in your mouth-
In the best of times, the colours impale my eyes
I long to be so broken the cold scrapes my bones like
I am too young; we are all too young