Morning broke upon her shoulders,
splintering into giddy-glitter fragments
wedged between her skin,
and before she could apologize
the world was on its knees,
begging her "please, please,
dance away the shadows so they
can't return to burn against
our eyes, our hearts, our minds,
all those little sacred bits
that leave us so indifferently enamored."

So she danced.

But when she turned around
their eyes were lidded and resigned,
reticent to gaze upon her barrenness—
though she called for them to raise their gaze,
she was just too much to comprehend;
"look at me!" she cried in vain,
"give me all the promises
you promise to each other."

Those who heard her desperation
turned against the tide to pay her tribute,
a blind devotion to her lightness,
her simple lack of substance—
"forget the shards of sunshine,"
she implored just as before,
"don't partake in fantasies
that chain me to a grave I've yet to see."

They gave her empty lists
of everything she owed them,
ever since inspiration sough to nest
between her shoulder blades, rest
inside the bones of her pretty wrists
so scarred and flawless—
"share with us the emptiness,"
they whispered as they crawled,
marching down her spine in perfect lines,
"let us see so everything will fall into our eyes."

So she tore herself apart.

And she fell asleep in pieces
as their fingers roamed her soul,
twined around the anything
she used to know so intimately
and pulled it into themselves;
but their eyes remained so lifeless,
their hands so unoriginal,
and they walked away unsatisfied
as she bled to life behind their lies.

Secrecy was such a simple gift.