Chandelier

She spins on the marble. She spins. Like a top.

And her body is sequined and her eyelids are glittered and her hair is golden. She's sort of perfect. She's sort of shiny. Blinding.

And she's still spinning. Like a less graceful ballerina. A scintillating dancer. Like a planet made out of diamonds.

*

Magpies would plunge down from the heavens and break like stepped-on cigarettes at the taste of her skin.

If she can do it to men, she can do it to birds. Everyone's an animal.

*

It's the... whatever she tried this time. She can't remember. Memory isn't a necessity when life is glamorous, because it's all a very, very thrilling routine anyway, and nobody needs to look back on what is always happening.

But this time is a little different, because her body is a little different. Everything is shapes and texture and movement.

And sound. And so much sound – little teaspoon footsteps and secret smearing lipstick.

Who knew that's what stupor sounded like?

*

The room spins the wrong way and she can't tell if she's dancing or walking anymore. Somewhere in another way of life, she might have confused antonyms and euphemisms. She could have also possibly confused what she's confused about anyway for something she's never been sure of to begin with.

Whatever. She's on the ceiling.

She's a little bit bad at direction.

Still pretty lustrous, though.

Very lustrous indeed.

*

Merde!

*

"I witnessed it. Yeah.

"Terrible earthquake, yeah, and I was on solid ground, down here. Those on top had it the hardest.

"Sequins fell in front of me, man, and then glitter and blonde hair after. And then blood came out of them. Yeah – and a couple dead birds fell too.

"That mean anything?"