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Nighttime,
and clouds are fusing together in electric detonations.

Extinction has become a shadow in the rain,
flanked by an entourage
of neon streaks and androgynous blurs,
both sinking into the asphalt
as silver spills across this schizophrenic sky
like the Rorschach explosions in Her frontal lobe.

She says she can feel herself corroding
between the rivets of her bones -
an evaporation of the mundane circuitry
that occupies the space amid her frame.

The faint scent of sabotaged conversations
lace the gasoline fumes that cling to her skin
while her shredded back
glitters with windshield wings.

I used to call her CJ,
“the disease that eats men’s brains.”

My shatterproof fairy,
embracing the earth with limp and gracious arms.

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