She wore drama as a penchant ‘round her neck,
telling herself she could shake it while she dresses
the mirror for all the others.
Casting herself in the right lighting, a perfect ruby
dripped onto her lips in a fell stroke, enough shade
to disable her smile.
She slinks into a room as a pinprick, you don’t feel
her until your skin has already been scored,
pixels of her memory.
Insides scorched the first time, it’s temporary they said,
just this once to cover the bills toppling over,
your boy needs food.
Filtering them through, three drinks at the bar before
she dances, three hundred dollars later, exhaling
another night’s existence.
A bouquet of smoke covers the oxygen that remains
inside the box she’s stepped herself into, troubled
soul with high morals…
No box cutter.