She walks back from the Co Op in time with the pounding stomping of the little tyrant set loose in her heart,
who paces up and down the vessels, kicking and punching holes in the walls of shadowed capillaries.
He is hunting for a full glass, ignoring crystal spring fountains
that he will only run his fingertips through.
She sings under her breath,
in harmony with the memory of the ringing in her ears when a boy would strike her vision black and ask if she liked it,
but the furious shouts of the little tyrant keep drawing her back.
So she traps him under a cup reserved for keeping spiders.
Blissful and numb, humming to herself while the rampage is contained,
caressing flower petals as she scuffs the pavement in her slippers.
Content and powerful,
until the glass steams up and shatters,
and everything is worse than it was before.
PLUTO BLOOMING 