She is a bullet in high heels running
headfirst into herself,
ripping through layers of wool and skin.

Slip panties from tree stump legs.
Count breaths by dead rings/Count sweaty footprints
faster than they disappear across the hardwood floor.

She is no Dorothy.
Here there is no yellow brick road,
only carpet burns from pulling herself by her fingertips.
Looking back/ No Kansas,
only the trail of discarded clothes
leading up to her like lizard skins.


Naked in the dull light of now,
her breasts hang like bare bulbs.
An itch at the nape of her neck, she turns herself inside out.
Loose threads catch on wrist bones and unravel, slowly
seams split,
giving way for lungs to inflate.


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