I am the size
and depth,
and breadth
and width, and weight, am the workings
of a pin.

Short and small and silver
the last fibre of a overused soul
The vestige of my being
the point of all my points
the sum of a hundred million parts

It sits, and smiles
Beguiling to the simpler's eye
It is little like a lamb
Oh, you loud loud thing
Singing, and thrumming

Porceline girl
You're the nightime woman
you wear your cheap clothes like a badge
And all the money you never had
becomes the silver of a needle that you carve into your arm

To this day, the paleblondblueyed beauty carries the scar of a heart on her wrist