Composure

Color bleeds on the calico once

Unpolluted by a body much farther from perfection than this unfinished cotton

Her lumps and her bumps now clot this garment

Now torn by a body too large

A pinprick self-inflicted by a needle meant to heal

Grief gushes from the end of her finger

Blood colors the gaping seem unable to contain her

An infected illusion of perfection

Stained calico hangs from hips

A trapeze artist about to slip