distract the scales
She tells a story to get herself outside her head;
a simulation of vigor and emerald feeling
to caveat a race towards oblivion,
to avoid further waste
into heaps of vacuous props for mystery.
Dangling from the ceiling of her dressing room,
a dubious and neglectful reverie begs to be spared...
This 'not quite IT' comes with a thud,
followed by shivers of warm delusion and a sparkling wide pressure,
only to avert a dribble of mucus from her chin
onto the scars in her ear.
