earthquake weather

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Earthquake Weather

She picks at fights
as if they were scabs;
fingers, cuticle-deep into wounds
never healed,
pulling at the strings he keeps submerged
amongst the beats
of a tell-tale heart.

The puppet master,
she knows how to
make him dance,
this siren's song
echoing the melodies of his

You see,
she prefers to keep him
on his knees,
lost in her hall of broken mirrors,
crawling across shards of glass
just to reach her.
A tightrope dance,
she keeps him
hanging precariously
from threads of her spindle,
spinning webs to embed him into
the fabric of her hands,
while weaving paths to leave him
if need be.

You see,
she picks at fights
as if they were scabs,
fingers digging into the faults
along his skin;
keeps him
on the edge of shaken up
and giving in.
Because in her world,
stability is a pretty myth
and she learned long ago
that fairy tales
just don't exist.

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