

It's like I want to kick her when she's down. And stretch her tendons out across this city--through the parking lots and intersections--just until that last tiniest moment before she breaks. I want that tension to hold her, to expose those red frantic muscles, naked and wide open before the neon lights and showcase windows. A social vulgarity that would seep even into her hands. It would be just like her to shiver in an alley--that fucking shield of emptiness--to cower in the door behind the door. I will turn to see your faces, as her skin is pulled taut, thin enough to catch the sudden shift in tone, the change of light; a sort of public translucency. And when her eyes finally rest heavy on your expressions, when her abundance drifts loose and baggy to the outskirts of this city, I will face forward once again, smiling as the trees drip slowly into red--their death pooled clumsily on the sidewalks.