The Anatomy of Jane

I am Jane’s bleeding heart.

I am Jane’s fear.

I am Jane’s anxiety.

I am Jane’s lost soul.

I am what is left of Jane after Dick.

Jane has cracked.

Cracked pieces of Jane bleed through numb fingers,

pixelating her into words like a woodchipper

and a piece of dry, warped aspen.

Jane has been immortalized at 1 am,

and transformed into a cyberspace sonet.

Nobody reads sonnets

and there are a lot of Janes.

The End.