Nothing sits on her floor and pulls her molars from her gums. Nothing laughs a full body laugh. Nothing rips her hair out and tacks it to the wall with chewed gum, grape or sour apple. She is dedicated to the romanticism of her heroes. She idealizes her nothing, gives it a tiara and a tutu, and tells it to dance. She is collapsing under the weight of so much nothing, she has a handful of Ativan and a heartful of Xanax. Her mouth is a fist. Her mouth is goosebumps and flinch and four chains on the door; her mouth is full of nothing. She is losing color, losing hope, counting the times her heel hits her foot, counting the minutes till she breaks surface, counting the songs that end happily ever after. She wants to shatter the funhouse mirrors, hold a piece to every made-up face and painted nail. She wants to un-circumcise the civilized. She is sawing off her toes with a piece of the mirror, she wants to walk on nothing. Dance on nothing. Spell her name through sounds that have never been heard before. She doesn’t want to be spoken into language today, the realm of the real. She wants to hide under the covers and pronounce farfetched truths and mispronounce the way out of the woods. She is laughing at the scratches on her instep, laughing at the way salt rises from her skin, laughing to keep the chains held fast on the door.