Tiny objects once pieces of ourselves
we overlook and place on shelves.
Displaced so frequently and fortunately forgotten -
all tissues and nerves destroyed within.
The sweet inconsistency her scent releases,
played on a screen that never ceases.
The fluid that drips from each rib you’ve misplaced,
each half-hearted attempt to clean up your mistakes:
the beautiful mess you left by the bed.
Each morning employs expressions never to be read.
Her collagen injected smiles prove themselves swollen,
sullen on a silver screen.
Baptized in a bathrub filled with freezing water
Clothes, sour, she hides with the scent
of the room where her last night was spent
Her pregnant mind, inflamed with the noises
finding their way through forced grace and poise
Each pose a broken mannequin
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