Unfused

He handed her over like a bag of glass

and went to find a shirt that wasn't stained.

Her skull is a puzzle not yet finished,

the plates of bone sliding beneath the skin.

I can feel the soft, rhythmic thrum

against the flat of my hand.

The weight of her neck is terrifying.

One wrong tilt, one lapse in the arm,

and the whole machinery snaps.

I hold my breath so she doesn't have to,

watching that little wet pulse

beat against the open gate of her head.