Encore by Aimee Nicole

Hair surrounds my face like a curtain.

Pulley discarded somewhere offside

—cracked and rusted—

so the chiffon can no longer rise. 

I’m going off script so be prepared 

for many encores of my selection. 

I can feel the rustling, an impertinent 

chaos prodding bone revving to spook.

Veins running with a banner

alerting others to my contagious peril. 

It’s true, I’m on the stage you set…

but I’m only here to run wild.

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