Impressionism

There are needles in her eyes
that hold her thoughts still.
Her hands are white and cold
as frost.
Her trembling lips
are crimson violet,
soft, but sharp in their full angles.
racing down
the length of her lithe body
a scar
as deep as memory
pulls itself from her dullness
and floats into remission.
The pills slide down like chalk
forging their way
into that vast
emptiness
in her womb nothing stirs
yet all is nothing
and the pang of forgiveness
will never come.