She began at the edge of the bed,
in the wrong city.
She had some withered roses
in a cardboard vase.
At night she weaved, with her veins,
a summer coat.
She collected bearded vultures
and words forbidden by God.
One day she touched herself,
and liked the smell of fresh ink
between her legs. She fell asleep.
When she woke
death was all of life.
There were broken books
and scattered papers,
open doors and open windows.
She was naked like the first time,
like when she fell asleep and bit
her flesh and drank her blood,
like when she was the twilight
banging on the door of her belly.