Ceiling tiles are falling
like renegade lawnmower blades
with light bulb shrapnel edges,
whirling around my head and
grazing the pretty little veins
that open into bloody smiles
at my throat.

Tiny bits of glass glance
across my fondant skin,
leaving bee sting pinpricks
with minuscule roses blooming
into them just to fill the
would-be scars;
red icing to hide
raked over cake crumbs.

When all the tiles crumble,
the frame looms dark and empty;
a waffle iron cookie cutter
suspended by razor wire cables
that sway in time to the
earthquake tremors under
three stories of empty space.

Wasn't this my sanctuary?
Before origami love notes
fluttered down like papercut cranes
to slice my fingerprints into
jigsaw puzzle pieces without matches
when I tried to read them;
before the props collapsed into themselves.

All the paper cranes are catching fire,
writhing in the growing tongue
of red-purple flame that
laps at my ankles incessantly,
spitting the ashes into the air
to land on my cheeks like
incinerated butterfly wings
in a river of tears.

Please don't let me scream.