it’s building inside her:
a steep–sharp that can’t find its way out.
it will devour her either way.
sometimes she doesn’t shower for days.
she doesn’t want to be any where near
she has to let it break down,
escape through her
blood, sex, waste ; eyes, pores, mouth.
but first she must shatter:
let the pieces conspire to make
the long trek across her flat heart.
she knows that death
is just another death,
is just another revolving door.
after that we become
myth; fly in and out of
bodies, species, truth.
she’s been running her whole life
and is still not equipped:
but any one can fall off a cliff.
she waits for the wolves
to come into her scent;
she and it and they are strong.