As the figure approaches, the blade it wields reflects
a concave line, that skirts an edge, that has no bend
As the figure turns a wrist, the reflection has a switch

I see my eyes and brows, the latter of which leashed
but runs in vain, like two mad dogs choking in mid-air
As the figure closes in heat pours from a muffled vein

I see in my mind saliva splash on the porcelain frame
I envision sweat seep the cracks and sponge in flesh
As the blade vanishes, so does my sight of the figure

I see its smile and its porcelain skin, and it’s pleased
I hear its face, as it lifts and smacks back to the skull
As I reopen my eyes, I see its smile, and it’s crooked