she plays her wrists like violins
trying to find herself below
the layers of her stardust suit,
carve out her soul like a jack-o-lantern,
abandon her atomic-anatomical shell
vibration of frustrated sound waves
coax the veins out, pluck the strings.

spirals (like the helix of her DNA
the staircase in her childhood home
the seashell she tried to throw back into the sea
the tornado she stepped inside
the galaxy her mother spoon-fed her) consume her.

she dreams of explosions
visions of the Big Bang
firecrackers, the Fourth of July
and the embers that fell
across the world that night
burnt her evolution & stopped her heart
then sparked it back into a holey rhythm.

grip, she loses it
on the glass of milk; it spills, she cries
on the walls; they’re so flat, the corners soft
on the wheel; she crashes a wedding, the vows survive (‘til death do us part)
on herself; freckles jump off her shoulders, her childhood commits suicide
she loses her grip, slippery wrecks for hands.

she tugs at her chordae tendinae
because at the end of the day
she’s only held together by tangled strings
weak pathways to a weaker organ
with the bravest façade of them all
the dying sun at the center of the universe
that just won’t quit.

and it’s never mattered if the leaves fall (they don’t bruise)
she slips the warm orange-brown under her tongue
it’s bitter and hints of winter
pulling the leaf from her mouth, she screams
she falls to her knees in Autumn
and at a very baffling funeral she lays the leaves
with all their immovable, frozen veins to rest,
and the violins soar.