Her name was Mary, but she was no virgin.
Her insides were made up of blackberry dust and
needles, memories of the day the ferris wheel froze.
It stood in the middle of the fair and made shadowed
cliffs across the snowy hills.
The voice behind her licked at the space
behind her knees, blew her kisses as the edges
called her closer and begged for a release.
“You’ll die if you keep this up, little girl,
you’ll die if you don’t kill yourself first.”