She sat on the edge

of a ledge in the cellar:

a pit so deep

so yore's womb could sell her

to the Lord above

or the devil down below

and if the devil was a child

she would never even know because

devils disguise themselves

as children all the time, they do

as they muster up their grins

and push you down the slide

or into an infinite cellar

with that pert look in their eyes,

leaving you to sit on your own to whine and mope and cry.

She felt like a frog,

shedding its skin in humid weather,

in sticky pieces

that she eats and then gets better

with a bit of sun

or a broad amount of snow

and if the sun had disappeared

she would never even know because

the Antichrist is thirteen

and kicked her in the shin, but she

didn't know how to react

so it's been snowy since

or maybe sunny once or twice,

to her it makes no sense,

why a little baby would do something like this.