The mirror cries long tears to the bus station

Her feet draw their mottled shapes on the

Pavement

It is wet and cold.

In my mouth, there lies elegant blood

It spills in heady rushes from my

Lips

Bejewelled like the rich, wilting women.

-red, I say, it is on the screen. It pulls my tendons as

Prone strings. Stop it, I say, I am lost, you know, lost like

The words seized in memory but not in your mouth-

In the best of times, the colours impale my eyes

I long to be so broken the cold scrapes my bones like

Metal

I am too young; we are all too young