Pulp
Marshmallow Mountain melts in the sun.
Cottage-cheese castles jiggle as she treks.
She sheds skin, bleeding a honeyed path for none to follow.
Bespectacled, uniformed, pen in hand, sitting on a desk-
It’s a pixie desperately scribbling. As if her hand can’t keep up with the river of misfiring neurons
pouring from her head,
The pixie pants paragraphs of push,
Twitching as she pulls and tweaks.
She yelps until her empty belly aches,
Until her tattooed wrists and auburn hair lose their color.
Until it’s perfect.
Her fidgets become tremors as she implodes, and disintegrates into mush.Fairy wings protrude from a pile of pixie rot.
Puddle of pixie dust or Sweetmeat Mountain,
Pulp all the same.
A fairy-tale pops out of a candied head.Another driver honks his horn.
She gathers her things, vends her broken machine. A marshmallow melts in the sun.