Her wrinkles were cracks
of youth eroded by disaster
The chasms had breathed in
the sweat of strange men
(at one point she stopped counting)
who spoke
in noises & gurgles; incomprehensive
her skin perfumed by the aroma:
an undertone of war buried
in the pungency of stale hope

Let it seep in and erode her soul, she’d thought
Let it run along the valleys of her figure
so that she vowed to never love
and to never be loved

She’d scrape her body with nails lacquered in dust and coal
opened some of the streams herself
as she watched Innocence admire Ruin
They bathed in a well of their tears
But no washing could cleanse their dirtied spirits,
no crying would relieve the sin and shame

The man in white used to pound on the decaying door
Checkups in pretense, desire in disguise
He couldn’t—wouldn’t fix her
cracked her wider open,
broke her further past her broken

Wi-an, she called herself
But whose relief did she breathe for
her fingernails broke the skin of her palms,
and the place was comfortable;
comfortable enough for the world’s darkest colors
to spill, to splatter,
comfortable enough for windowless disaster
to stain her in the shadows of their evil.