By C. Locke
There is no light behind closed eyelids when acid tears burn trenches in her sunken cheeks and the lullaby of a dead girl plays on a broken record
flesh drips from her bird bones to pool at her feet, seeping through the ravines between the floorboards.
She screams bloody murder as yesterday’s fly by and notes of shattered glass dance in an empty room, splattering walls with disfigured rainbows and crooked smiles that leer from melting mirrors – laughing at nothing. The madness of
knowledge infects her eyes when a skeleton runs through
a narrowing hallway: the basic blueprint of a memory, a lost soul seeking the question for the answer, the moment where is all began. Sprinting backwards
through memories and events forgotten, she watches the stranger she knows all too well. Locked
doors mock her intelligence with their secrets held captive
behind snickering keyholes, walls whispering
broken promises made long ago. The door to the past lies knocked from its hinges, leading to a time before the gouging of the third eye. Her eye
stains flowered wallpaper where the remnants of
an ancient battle that left her blind – left her staring through the gore of too many lifetimes. Don’t you see? Knowledge lies in the forgotten and lives are resurrected from the dead. A skeletal hand
reaches through the carnage for a life discarded searching for a skin shed too soon, wiggling into an antique life, before time could erode beauty.