(Dis)Order

she was a fortress of frailty
hidden inside a square chamber
of peeling plaster walls
her fingertips blushed inky blue,
the spider webs on her laughter grew
and her canker sores bubbled with the irony of it all
as she argued with her yawning prison door
about whether her terminal life
was one of her quirks or one of her holes

and her heart,
it beat, beat, beat against those chalky bars
like a toothless warden with a wooden club
until she was only splinters and abstract art
spilling salty words from a bottomless cup
as she tried to fill the hollow spots
with patchwork thread and shiny spare parts

six steps forward
reach a dead end
rotate ninety degrees
start over again.