Dead eyes and frown lines,
belly up and surrendered,
she paints her nails with pearly white hot anger
and gemstones shaped like butterflies.
Dressed up in black and blue,
sore from free falling,
from a lifetime of building and breaking down walls,
of getting piss-drunk and missing people.
She sharpens her canines,
sucking in steam from a fire tongue,
and adds doors and windows to the list of things worth lying over.
PLUTO BLOOMING 