There's caution in the resolve. There's
something winding in the ring.
The ugly prodigy is, at the end of plastic
surgery, still ugly. I understand you
weren't always the kind of woman
to set her own hair on fire. Or maybe
you were. Victory always comes
with a cost, they say, as if failure
doesn't. Somehow, this idea's warped
us like bedazzled scavengers. Whether
it's you, or me, or the taxation fees,
or blood's menacing appearance
in urine. The question's not under
the whether, but rather the wine
and how it drips into your ear
from a string. It's the way you can't
help but let it. Understand, neurotic
perfectionists are mostly calculated,
a certain ilk of repressing every bite
to a pinch. But the prodigy is different.
Piqued by the opportunity for resolution,
she'll set her hair on fire and wait
for you to put it out.
