History books & tissue diaries.

Her past-self flickers like an unwashed candle
dripping pounds past the contours of her body;
a waxy skin, uncleaned and promisculously painted,
and crying tears of ash from the dilated blue.
The hardest half to find in her reflection.

Her old word's worlds are written in knife-edges
& consecutive moons of soberness,
while nocturnal emeralds stare at orange boxes,
and the snow returns to lace her conversations.
She won't look back but feels her catching up;
a ghost far less naive
than her dulcet mouth would speak.

and she asks, how far is the end of the world?
and should we wait?
will this woman, this girl, this death, return
and take me,  canker me, like the poison of the pills?

She says that darkness is not night,
but the thoughts of the ill;
that light can lie,
under trees,
it hides but it decieves,
it smiles in double-doses, drinks it's liver dry
and keeps a woman, coffin-costumed cold,
when the rest are warm outside.

material pleasure can cure a lonely mind,
as day-to-days are out of sync with time,
the sun awakes and she goes down,
a pathless journey, traced in her tissue paper diaries-

flick, flick, flicking through the pages.