By Stephanie Hickner

Sandra Ray’s heartbeat is less a melody
than a shallow vibration.
The screws meant to hole her steady
Spun down her drain toward nowhere at all.

To battle miseries and ecstasies
Just what she needs, or so she thinks,
is to drag a blade across her pale skin
Oh, watch her bleed.

Her blood not as red as the cardinal who sings
of love so fleeting, in the
snow-drenched evergreen;
the color of jealousy.

Sandra’s eyes glow it bright,
lips shudder in fright.
She cut too deep, and now what to do?
Besides keep wishing
she were more like you.