She collapses on cold, glistening tiles
still slippery from rancid soap,
contemplating, oozing acrid earnestness,
the speckled edge of Daddy's razor
palmed from his vanity in the morning.
She's had one too many downers:
Cause and mystery turns to rust.
Her eyes are misty from the steam;
3 o'clock, and her face is the colour
of cold, dead leaves. Fingernails chewed
to the quick, unlined skin scrubbed cleaned
from the pawing of Daddies twice her age.
Limbs akimbo, in a wordless plea:
Cause and mystery turns to rust.
The cellphone lay in pieces, next to
her heaving skin; underneath her socks
and toes were burns, blistered from
the games that people play, working
pallid skin into knots, ribbets plucked
from rooftops and bearded barley.
Misty eyes, wide in wordless plea:
Cause and mystery turns to rust.
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Something that was written about a year ago.
