410.

Disposable skin
breaks like glue sheened on flesh to
offer new beneath.

409.

Often, your mouth is
but a caricatured lock,
broken on hope's box.

408.

Ink stains on bleeding
walls document the capture
of paper mimes here.

407.

Come be my turn style
and shunt me a new vision
through you little slut.

406.

The curved blade cuts two
sides from my face in splendor.
Such pretty pain.

405.

A me not even
I know paints cracks on the bones
of conformity.

404.

Here, we occupy
entire existences
constructed by fear.