there once was a girl with an atlas for a heart.
her loves lived in red pins,
piercing tissue behind lacquer ribs.
she may unearth it, that you
might have stolen a glance. and she, watching
another heart trough, another pair of brows
gather disquiet, closed again.
"i'm not alone," her whispers rung the night,
peppered by the red pins, glitter against the last ladder
of light on the ceiling. careful reminders, listed love.