Craving comfort, beige women line their cream homes with white roses. The thorns, being cut off by blunt scissors, bleed their chlorophyll dreams out in the trash can. Some perfect woman will dump them out in compost, saving the world wearing a cable knit chromosome and the greenest eyes. In cold mirrors, I stare back at myself. See the thorns coming from my finger tips, my hands clasped around my own throat?
Miniature Moon 