August 14, 2014

I’m unearthed in the uncovered edges of mirrors, my fun house face, my belly a bag of needles. Not tatters but scraps. A spine of light split by a solitary prism into a spectrum of shade. You who lasts, laugh. I wasn’t razed to be remade. On display between the leaves of darkening glass. These, my flattened wings, fore and hind. These, my specimen days.