breath
cracks
like
sanity.
down the spine
of her intuition,
crowded like
her deportation
from melodrama.

hands open like
butterflies upon her
ginger wrists- like yearning.
like wrapping herself
in leaves
still beautiful from the
rain.

her life in metaphor- in split
raindrops and salted tears.
she was made to wrap her arms around you
and be engulfed by your
permeating deprivation.

and she is nothing more than a swatch
of colors,
on a storm-stained canvas
running together like the whims
of artistic capability.
like love.
like longing.
like being something,
while not being anything
at all.