She no longer recalls or feels.
Coherency is not a concept.
The curve of her back is wired with filament.
Straw fills the space that held a heart.
Hyacinth grows inside her wounds that open and reopen.
Crocus covers a callus of bone that never heals.
Constructed for crows her limbs are stripped of
flesh and doll eyes stare into nothingness.
Her throat is filled
with lacy moths their torn wings caged
by lips strung with suffering.
Nothing escapes the prison of barbs
for there are no words that cut deep enough.