the pure light falls
dust motes, can't you see them
drift into the crimson hue
that one is me, she says.
the bloody, clean glass
such a color, so
vibrant.
and my blood turns to tears
and my breath is liquid gold.
circulation cut off, there aren't enough seats today,
you'll have to stand. sorry.
she just watches from the corner of her eye, and
pretends she isn't. it's
better to be subtle and apathetic (on the outside)
people don't think she knows.
what a moron.
but eventually they catch on, so she
looks away, and sees the window, but not
through. vision
is relative, after all, she's forgotten her contacts, and
she can't see so very well. focus instead on
the droning in the front, which means nothing
unless you're naive.
don't believe
in one or the other
reality or salvation. it's
awfully hard to choose. she
discreetly checks her wrist, and
feels in her pocket for her freedom.
a droplet forms, and the
martyr smiles
clean no longer.