The Lash

The Lash

She thinks pain is beautiful

in thirty minute dreams,

a stagnant thought

and the memory of lost love,

she has been bitter;

knuckled under by bad art

and broken promises.

Wanting the singing to stop

to rest in a bucket

in a well

in the bottom of the ocean,

tired and silent

heavy

like blood.

She thinks pain is beautiful

when very much awake,

feeling electric in scarlet 

beating back the ghost,

coming home roundabout

and seeking out a sunburn.

Up to her knees in pansies 

she licks the palms of her hands

to capture salt,

sucks her fingers

in hope of honey,

breaking her lips

over her teeth.

She thinks pain is beautiful

when she looks at the stars,

flat on her back

tracing her scars,

she thinks pain is beautiful

until she doesn't

anymore.