Her hair coils.

Endless, meaningless, driven rhymes,

Written upon a bleeding head.

She burns it.

Cuts it.

Marks it.

Colors it.

Tries, if nothing else, to

Straighten it

And yet still,

In the midst of the summer nights,

While the moon shines above the stars,

And her smile brims upon a broken face,

A single,

Tiny,

Sharped,

Bit of

Her hair coils.