Starve

She must have been a strange 
thing in that light, the folded 
backbone, the fitful 
spawning. How the trees 
dreamed they were girls 
without feet, without eyes, 

and her such a pale thing. 
Consonants fail in the dim 
hours, a euphoria of horizon, 
or objects, or drowning. 
We are kitchen matches 

in winter; our throats ache 
with want. Paint chips 
from the railing 
and the widowed cells 
remember the quiet of 

windowpanes, ribcages. 
The moons of our nails 
taste salty and bloodish. 

the only good girl is a dead girl - 
the only good girl is 
lemons, windchimes, slice of thigh. 

My bones are looking 
for something to lick. Car crashes 
fill our mouths, sugared and thrashing. 
Beneath the pinks of our dresses, 
in our collarbones, there is famine.