She feels the wind streaming through
the spaces between her fingers-
the prickling feeling of emptiness
complemented by reveries of a
slow dance in a
Dapples of sunlight against
the rusting train tracks-
the raxeira cast across the floor
in the corner of the room;
her wrists chained to the
She likes it that way,
because idiocy follows her release.
Blisters line her soles,
bare supple skin which never once
touched grime pressed against
raw rocks, stones –
The echoes of the stick against her calve,
the memories of the stinging
pain, its numb and
it provides succor along
with the cochineal hues combined with
patterns pressed against her skin.
Back pressed against the metal,
kept within a miniscule can
her cries unheard utterances against
the winds in the empty room.
She sits still in the painful quietude,
her hands lying in the right angles
over her lap as she keeps her eyes
hovering over the floor;
she’s alone but drowning.
She’s alive but barely breathing.
She’s sane, but she’s breaking.
Shuttling between extreme euphoria
and donning the shards of
dejection she crumbles –
and she’s a wildfire; her soul engulfed in flames.