She says she's fine, but she can't light her cigarette.
She'll burn craters in her thumb before she gets that flame to hold.
The ghost in her eyes, all riddled with bullet holes,
tattered and smoking where the sparks pierced the veil,
falls unceremoniously and is still.
Her spine rattles, but the fire's in her head.
She flicks the lighter like a nervous tick and curses her hands.
She ought to have swallowed that fuse on her tongue.
The pyre's in her lungs and it's folding her in two,
smoldering on the asphalt where she spits,
shriveling and gulping empty air.
Her shoes are singed and black, her lips speckled with ash.
Trembling fingers cradle a plume of smoke.
She lights her cigarette, and says she's fine.
