She was but a fluttering twist of pink
chiffon and streaming ribbons, able to kiss
wedding-cake ceilings and smile half-heartedly;
Spindly limbs in a tangled mess against claret
lips, enveloped shut with stitched black thread
that shrouded her whispery, butterfly voice -
A voice that shook violently in airtight jars,
knuckles laced together in quiet rebellion,
eyes that sank gently into a softened chasm
of regret; past mistakes in a lulled nostalgia.
Ruptured anemic wrists flourished with tight
decoration, suited best for porcelain dolls,
that spiraled up milky white arms;
She heard the archaic tunes of radio, mind
struggling to grasp a frequent tune she heard
when she had only been but a child.
Dance, dance, dance - she fought against her
body, her instrument in a harmonious sonata,
that wanted, so very desperately, to stop.