Really, only dream-heat
marks her scars, tumbling
her into pillows so
she can feel them
scratch-catch at her breath
and at rough threads torn
from the sheets, but
honestly, she admits
that she couldn't forget
them because, though
they're red-glaring under
her clothes by day,
they're all too visible
in the fabric-free
nudity of night
mirror-dances. Her
pale, cold flesh shouts
out the faces and
uncountable numbers,
though her hands
just tingle across
the still-pink,
still-puckered hatch-cross
lines thorned around
her thighs and pasted
to her breasts,
and pause on the
horseshoes trotting
across her palms.
Her fingers don't have
tear-ducts to wash
them away, so she just
stands unquivering in
the glass, watching
it shatter on her feet.
And she doesn't know
this yet, but broken
reflections on new
dead scars blush
a carmine haze.