acetone, paper pulp: i belay the thick of my heart. its slow itch that spins me toward ink i do not long to wield. like a river, curses follow the lines of my palm — why my fingers do not burn for more than haphazard chords, like one forgotten puzzle piece. i paint the air with questions, as if i hunger for easels and the cotton glide of a palette knife. all i long for is a return to the crash site: my hands more tender, my eyes less trusting. i am not carving away enough neurone and marrow to be pretty, languishing. 

could be a deer, been told. full eyes wrapped in purple-tinged fog like woodsmoke: you, she says, only for the light that will not scream back when you part your lips. i would fill a theatre with static. if you cut around my ribs, you’d be more careful than i. all to show for the effort? one waterlogged wooden heart. salt like the cloak of an unyielding deep. sunlight breeches the ocean much like staring up at stars will give, give — their weight pushed clear into your chest. i am the blade of grass plucked by those who are the noise of other people. oblong bottle edges that never could become sea glass, translucent and reborn. bent heels to hell, chest swaying with rot.

glass, mirror, and bone. save the yellowing shards for when i put my spine back together — a coward’s errand, dragonfly wing kaleidoscope kicking at my window. careful, i could try for an easy glide. scraps of a life raft unrecognisable. sharp-edged, and dark silver, and tear tracks for the hand to lock over my mouth. when glass i could throw settles into the sand, would it be a welcome home? how many of my bones, i wonder, would one little girl wish to break?