It's the colour of veins.
their oily tentacles
dripping through newspaper.
bloodied paper mache
Ever so repulsive.
Surprise found her,
gazing up
at her lovely face.
but she reasoned with herself.
After all,
she might be dead.
That would explain things.
So she fell backwards,
and saved herself from drowning
face down
In her own reflection.
She's still sitting on her feet
wondering
who's looking at who.
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