This Is What She Does

pills click together like dice
white and smooth, in her hand
and the bitter taste left in her mouth
has nothing to do with
their flawless skin.

this is what she does,
this rent burlap of tar and organ
wrenched from the bed sheets each dark morning
to swallow clicking pills,
yellow sticky-note reminder on the mirror:
“eat breakfast.”
sometimes she forgets.
a wardrobe of long sleeves
pulled carelessly over
arms that open here and there
to tell the story she cannot;
silent mouths of crimson.

the haze starts to clear
from her thick and weary mind
as her gray apartment
slowly plumps with color
like a mosquito drinking blood.
swings a backpack up
to replace the globe on her shoulders
a fumble for car keys
and exit.

this is what she does,
pulling herself through
each molasses-heavy day
even though she sticks here and there
like a neglected wind-up toy
sooner or later
she goes on.
she picks the flowers she cannot smell,
drinks the wine she cannot taste
and watches the picture-show
no one but her can see,
faces etched in death and painted in gore
and the jerky clockwork that means
it’s just another empty nightmare.

after work she comes home,
drops the backpack and straps on the globe,
burden familiar.
she pulls up her sleeves and applies
a new blade like a salve
to calm her festering heart.
she tucks her nightmares into bed,
a kiss on the forehead,
and then
in front of a faceless mirror
she swallows pills,
clicking like dry bones, like
emptiness,
loud in the haven of noise.

this is what she does.
and then
she replaces her marionette carcass
into its welcoming coffin of sleep
to dream dreams of
sweet elixirs
and fragrant sage.