And I made her into a ladybug
My head, stuck, between my legs with my ears touching each of my knees, alone. I shrivel in the back of a room watching the apples die around me. Watching the paint peel from that walls and faces form in the concrete cracks as I sit there, dying myself. I can feel my spine breaking and my breath start failing and the giggles of girls wrapped in sheets of red cotton echo. I look at the clock and I am 40 minutes too late for the death of a moth on the windowsill, execution. I imagine the fluttering, the twitching...the death. It's all over before it even began. But the clock ticks backwards and now I am only 39 minutes too late, now 38... why am i dying when time is creating more space for itself? More space for tragedies? more space for the girls in the red cotton sheets to stay forever beautiful, young and plastic. And now the moth is back alive and the windowsill is no longer there. But time is cruel and I am stuck in the illusion that it will go too far back to remember why i am stuck here in the first place, and i will be released. No. Time goes forwards again. The moth shrivels, the flowers wilt, the sun sets and my hair turns gray. I wrinkle, I starve and beauty is escaping from my lips as the lipstick is wiped so harshly away. The color is gone, the innocence is gone, and I have planned out my demise.