We fall so in love
with life that we feel as if we
must dance just shy of
We turn, mocking our beacon
of life; veiling scars and aches
behind stockings and sequins.
Two heartbeats are our rhythm.
As we strut we misplace
this knowledge that we are vanity
holding death in her hands—hardly hidden,
like our humanity,
behind red capes.
Our movement wed with mistrust.
Can a life be abated?
Held, tense and taut and tight and terse,
only waiting to be tainted?
Dust and skin and sweat and spit
dark eyes, helping us forget
the blood caked across our hips.