From the backseat
her red hair an accusation.
Thin, careworn, and cunning
burnt forever by that long-ago season;
she knows the wrong things.
Dissolute pools
trapping the blue sky,
her mascara-smeared eyes lie,
looking backly.
“This is how the world is,”
nodding,
“this is how the world is.”
Her disjoint face abandons
the words she forces;
words are flight,
purposed for betrayal.
The Fall creeps in,
steals what is not hers;
is merciless.