Hysteria by Hayley Targett
How to continue, push the pillow so it melds your face.
Cradle panic in your hands.
It pounds your system, naturally.
They don't tell you exactly how long
days turn into long years, pricked so beauty bleeds quietly.
Speaking to your hips- jaunt,
a stride that's been absent from the streets too long.
Buildings dropped on pavement.
Funnels blowing white smoke.
Smoke pressing blushes into bare necks.
I really want to keep my cheekbones.
They cut into me and elicit comments. They're my mother's by origin.
If they paid for my home I'd feel strangely narcissistic but I'd do it.
Whatever it took. That safe place where cherries would sit in dishes & a lighter would lean against a glass,
Gleaming brilliant in a dim, lit, light.
I wonder if I think with an accurate stream. I could be leading myself to nothing.
Although the closing thought,
What is it about red, that slicks a tone down to absolute vibrance?