Your neurones are a lattice she picks at with her toes,
the rose nail-polish chipping as it is forced to snip, twist and
cause complete chaos.
It cries as it slips out of the sunshine patterns on the floor and
into the wrong nightdress,
compelled to abandon its milkmaids with intact hymens,
and do scarlet's job for a night.

She shrugs and rubs at the thunderstorms in her eyes,
inflamed from allergies to Laura Mercier panda lines
and the artificiality flavouring her tears honey and cinnamon.
Her honesty she pawned in for a crooked smile and cub claws
which, from a respectful distance, insisted that
she have no regrets.

Under blue spotlights, she tore the key from the lace collar
about her neck, and in the wind created by the opening
of a cage door, flew to Mongolia,
where half of her remains as she attempts to glue
your nervous system back together with the raindrops
rung from the ends of her hair.
A bottle of nail polish remover is precarious
on the fourth finger of her left hand.

Back home, the old, worn mailbox swings empty,
and there is bougan villea adrift in the vase.
You, her broken-hearted devil, must permit
her redemption.