The raw of her pressed itself to wet paint, locked doors and windows to fasten the studs of the mind, each marking awake to its strange design. In bed she found herself beneath the deepest layer of his skin. No home for a woman, she'd think. She gave birth, baked pies with the fruit that rot in a bowl by the red lamp. The plants died. She deprived them. Silver jewelry lined the walls of her anger as light clotted on the lake's surface. She was always bitter for the animals. They're just our entertainment, she'd say. Part of her knew that she, too, would always be a circus trick as she ripped off the sleeves of her bluest dress and hung them like prayer flags, hair long and dark, doll face cursing.