sera
she climbs the stair
master in heels and shades
hiding the years of decay
and deep bruising
under her pretty
facade, but below,
the mirror is a crack
away from shattered,
luck bordering on black,
hope a tattered cocktail
dress, hung as lifeless
and desperate as gravity
tugs
her into rugged orbits
where collision in guaranteed
veins and shame destined
to bleed, puddling
indiscreetly
to stain the Earth
of roots pulled
wrong,
of lustworthy
lungs, and
of her tired
Nightengale
song,
she climbs
into empty air
singing sweetly
for escape,
collapsing sadly
into her bottomless
case