She keeps her heart hidden in
wool. Not unlike the sheep it was
shaven off of. Tucked behind a secured
neckline with scarves or strings,
depending on the weather.
And weighted evenly between her shoulder
blades, it hangs and does not move
in fear of playing to much.
She chokes at the thought of
being discovered boring. And the
effort she needs to keep up, bullies
her freckled skin and
builds a coiled labyrinth
of vines and avid eyes breathing
all the air around. Blankets of wool
is needed so she stays up late
for the crowd-
but rises early for herself.
To the sheep she sings a damn good
tune, picking and shaving only the
good parts ignoring the rest-
leaving what she can not use.
But the sheep are sheep, and
they will ignore the cold if a single
one does. Lacking the memory to care,