So Long
behind rippled windows—a place you've
never seen—she hangs like a spider made
of tarnished metal. dust billows by me,
blown off her palms (she breathes it back into
her lungs). scrubbing the seams of someone
achingly unforgettable, she pulls them apart—and who
would ever know they bleed? she should
have surgery, go under, but scars do not
face, and with anymore cuts she couldn't hold
herself together. who are you is a loaded
question; she is no one, so give her the gun.