Pump her blood out, tiny clear tubes–
fill her with metallic screams or steadier
pulse. There’s no rhythm on land anymore…
They try to take the light out of her
spirit, but it’s imprinted too deep.
The shining is a part of her invisible
synapses, as natural as umbrellas in
the gutter, not letting anyone prevent
her from keeping herself bright…
Unlike us–I’d like to think it was merely
bad timing, the procedure comes first,
side-effects follow like carbonation rising
to the brim of your golden beer–I can’t
remember the name of that Irish pub,
but I can see your eyes, target locked.
I knew I wasn’t going to make it out alive.