Ballerina

Peach

red

flamingo

she dances

stripped

striped

albino

she prances.

She bleeds black-burgundy tears

polluted with daydreams

and brick-a-brack

tip toe

along the show

(her eyes are the color of starlight)

slicing

the silence

that began somewhere between

the string ties of her corset

(black, like everything else)

and the drip drop

cup

of her

breasts;

tiny

like dancers

features, usually are.

She serenades all those around her

publicly,

accused but never convicted

righteous but never righted.

She is nothing more then the stringy layers of my fingernails

chewed

white

on the table top

as I bite down

unafraid to look

past

everyone else's long-time-ago

birthed from the groan of the future

slipping

form.

(Sex has always been to loud for people like her.)

Or maybe

the dangle of her earrings;

can't you see

that you

(he)

dangle from them like

candy-coated-day-drops

dripping

little

boy

hanging on for dear life,

he loved everything that should have been beautiful

(could have been?)

but was unmistakably ugly.

He found her lovely

but wanted nothing to do with her.