Society in Abstract

She has triangular palms

and circular fingers

one arm is thin and yellow as a tooth

the other is that box

that you pounded down

for the garbage man 

sprinkled with

red

and black 

and blue

and trampled by

the rain

her spine is twisted

so bad

almost as much as a politician's

and her heart is twisted

just as badly

almost as if she were a politician

she has

no neck and

skin that fits her worse than her daddy's coat when she was little

she

drapes over herself in too many colors 

she's 

burning on the inside out

she

shrivels like a carcass if you look close enough but

no one ever does

she seems to be sculpted with mealting wax

a failed attempt to be heard

when you have nothing to say

but then you see her face

it's the perfect kind of round

with skin so broken that it's healed to become marble

soft

as the lining of a winter jacket

warm as fire

warm like blood

but

her blood is cold

because her veins are ice

and 'nice' isn't one of those words that describe her a 

a fighter, right

but for all the wrong reasons 

and she's on the brink of a new revelation 

that could be devistating or beautiful 

depending on the eye of the beholder

she's clever

using a plastic face to sink a thousand ships

bringing them down with letter chains and bowling balls 

willing to sacrafice the world

in order to entertain herself

there's something

between her brain and her mouth

that likes to make pretzels out of the truth

and send them out

salted and baked to perfection for everyone to hear 

her voice

is like a violin's

that hypnotizes ears

from

e v e r y  

c o r n e r  

o f  t h e  

l a n d

what she doesn't know

is that it's not her voice at all

but the collective chant

of the human race

and that face 

that she's so proud of

is just paint

and the body 

she never seems to see

is made

not of skin

not of wax

but of mirrors

each speck the whisper

of one of us