Miss Tragedy blows a kiss,
Curls a finger
Oh. Oh. Oh. Because it feels good, temporary, on the inside.
She flings regret into the wind as she jumps again.
We've all seen this show before.
Spotted costume on the floor.
It's a circus on the mattress and she's waiting for the audience,
To applaud every move theatrical.
"What does it matter." She should know.
A dance of moving bodies and supposed promises;
The performance splatters but the stares remain fixated.
Head on his chest,
Listening for secrets,
Or a heart to beat her name.
It's all part of the act, or so the eyes are led to believe.
In the breathing she can,
In the silence she can,
Make mistakes -
And dramatically, take her worth away.