Sunday’s child was never born.

With a flick
of the supple
wrist
she tripped
headlong,
twisting down,
a bouquet of liquid,
sticky,
rose petals
doing little.

Her cushioned fall.

Tiara
ground to glass,
now junk,
by buttery,
rubbery fingers.

A scalpel’s clean grin
shines endlessly
through
her thin memory.

Another hostage
held against
the saline tied,
she slipped
into unwillingness;

Truer words
were never whispered;
these lies headline
tomorrow’s paper.