Real Slippery

The black heart is painted over. Mouths turn down, but the sun speaks directly to the skin. Better we run now then look back. In the morning you are the only key for the lock and come night, who knows who could break in. My words are your words inside out. My daughter likes sock puppets, a hand can make something real, even when you have given up on finding bunnies in the clouds. Memorize the way the chair waits, how the weight can be steadied. I worry because my mother bought a chair with a crack in the leg, mascara is harder to clean up than blood. In the afternoon there is a lull and even flies hang upside down to see that the world is perfectly flipped.