The Perfectionist

In her eye
(a perfectly good,
perfectly innocent eye)
sat another one--
golden,
unblinking,
nasty.

She opened her diary--
never again would it fold sweetly beneath her breastbone
like a paper heart;
the small round rider in her vision
set itself the task to make certain.

Each passage she had written
bloomed backwards,
unspooling like white thread
pulled from a pale page
by Death itself.

Oh, don't feel too badly for her,
our little alpha-girl.
She and her lemon eye
were not opposites, but rather, deceitful partners.

It's true that the paltry orb shut itself,
wiping out every word;
but she let it,
and sat smiling and cored, with nothing left
but her doting fondness
for the tiny killer she had borne.
______

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