she speaks with her hips
her words cannot convey her intentions so she translates with her walk
her masala rich hair is salty from the sea
her bruised plum lips are sore from his touch
she lays cold under the autopsy flashlight
even in fucking death she smiles
diamonds mask her wrists and neck
emeralds and rubies hide her fingers
sapphires on her ears won't spill her tears
she's buried in what she was
gold 47 in her right and silver in her left
her ammamas gold rings still on her toes
only to match the ones in which she killed her foes
naked brown bruised body on the stolen metal
trays with knifes and clippers surround her
slowly each part of her is being dissected
they cut her arms lay them next to her legs
they take her eyes lay the right next to her hip and the left her lip
they cut her neck (blood drip) lay it next to the 47
the gold one
her jewels stay on
she would be embarrassed if they weren't
orbit of black curls protect her loose head
dried burgundy stained blood etched onto her skin flushed out by glacial white lights
dusky girl lie down in her bed of hope and her bed of lies
to her they are the same
(this dream never dies)
