In a desperate garden, she, the one with the eyes, spins furious
fragmented circles. Her long long golden hair spins straight out from her
head and runs over her face as she twists and turns preparing to die. Her
smooth bare white feet crush helpless leaves and leave frantic prints in the
uncaring earth. Looking skyward, pointing her deep blues to the heavens,
she screams and screams. But the sky is neutral and she soon becomes s
for lack of response. The garden is ratty and overgrown. No more order.
No sense. Just weeds, decaying ferns, rotten flowers with ants and maggots
spilling forth. A bit like her mind. Look into her eyes. But don
t get lost in
them. Don
t go to far into them. Don't let her take you where she
s going.
At first glance those eyes spark and fume, but that
s only from the circles she
paints with her slender form. Look into them again. See that there is
wisdom, but notice that there is a sadness to that wisdom. And now as the
night grows older and older, as does her plight and her life, look into her fine
blue eyes again and see the spirit of someone so completely crushed. Those
eyes beg for help. They beg for freedom, they beg for the right to go to a
smooth beach on a foggy S
aturday without asking. Looking at those eyes, I
see the pain and there is so much pain in them, the eyes, that
t help
but hurt with them. What can I do? What can I say? Can I share the pain,
ease the pain, steal the pain? Can I go to the source of her pain and burn it
down, shoot and skin it in the early morning?

she shouts in a falsely carefree voice,
I don
t need help. I
ve got it
all figured out. I
And she
s so wrong that for a split second, I hurt more than she does out of
pure helplessness. What can you do for someone who
s that far gone? She
just spins faster and faster and faster until her hair is going so much faster
than she and it rips around covering her face, covering her eyes, covering
her expressions. Listen to the sound of her pounding feet. The leaves are
sticking to her soles
because she
s stomped them bloody. And spinning and
spinning and spinning she reaches her peak and it all comes out. Her body
drops straight down like a dying bird, ending in a crumpled pile of bloody
leaves, unmoving unbreathing. But free. Finally free of everything. Even