What Is Beautiful

he slouches to the front
of the world
a limp hand drops the
pink porcelain cap
of his skull
she loves the sound it makes
with the pavement
hollow clinks
with the splatters of plasma blood
that bounce out of his head
when he steps
his red is more brilliant
than hers.
the hand rises and cranes deep
into his skull and
rips thick chunks of brain
each piece carefully aligned
on the table
one
by
one.
she inches closer
letting brown eyes trace
every fold of the
swollen flesh
one eye strays to the
ripped denim
of his knee
sloppy lint sprays over the
wound and
it makes her sad.

under the obsidian silk of night
she’ll dig weak nails
into her scalp
slip back to the day she
scratched herself off
God’s ear
pale baby stardust
that browned and aged
and fell to the world.
her brain is scattered in pieces
on the floor
dry carpet soaks the red
she couldn’t see
in the dark.