Skeleton dancing wings never last- they fade, and become ashes

My scars are luminescent fireflies imprinting raspberries stains into my elbows- tranversals physically made by freckles, and emotionally born of wire hangers in faulty washing machines.


Lightening chains crisscross my thumbs to pinkies as they form quadratic equations in my blood stream. Parabolas full of singing memoirs pulse at my pressure points, as  I watch hyena girls whip shredded gossip into dancer girl's ears.

I have cellar arches swirling on my thighs from subtle cleavers prodding me for vulnerable places- careful gestures, meticulous with a lack of entropy.


Lonely summer afternoons beneath the Italian sun colors my cheekbones , a couple hundred shades of desolation and ice shadows.

Flashbacks become vision blades as danced out arms huddle, striving for invisibility so maybe they will pretend she's not there- my eardrums sing with foot step replays of two years ago tiptoed on linoleum floors,so maybe they wouldn't notice me.

Cemetery smiles glint in broken irises, when she finally looks at me- defeated, sparking reflex fires in my knee creases and on my uneven hip bones as I remember anxiety attacks.

Brass coils line my ribs, and coating my veins- internal scars searching for openings into my blood stream- my scars are painted on my body behind bones, and emblazoned on my spine.


Soon, dancer girl will become a skeleton and victim of silence- one who if she doesn't break, in two years will be expecting to be over it and find herself doubled over trying to contain the pain loaded flashbacks.

Soon- like me, her brittle wings will be the heaviest part of her, because the rest of her was whithered away and became seperated from dance.
No longer strong enough to dance- barely a girl.