by ty

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

crumbling room.


Dapples of sunlight against

the rusting train tracks-

the raxeira cast across the floor

in the corner of the room;

she’s trapped,

her wrists chained to the

twisted metal.


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 –

glass shards.


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

she whimpers,

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.