No one reflected to her that her voice was off-key, that sharp, curly notes wafted from her lips when she thought she sang lollipop shivers and pollen-rich feathers scented with gold. The song in her own head sounded different to her and she was the only one who could hear.
Classy dining cars full of bejeweled mistresses always on course, of course. The train always follows the tracks. And her tracks were laid out with her genes, long like her legs, curvy like her lips, fast like her wit. Round and round the track she goes, following the trail of many before her. But of some she doesn't know. The ones that derailed. She doesn' know how they flew rather than fell, how the anticipation of the black hole almost imploded them, how the roar of their own song deafened their ears until their compass spun out and settled on up.
All she knows is that there is a cringing jack in the box in her belly, wound and wound from going round and round, and the pressure is so taut, so tight, so sour and rich and full, like a jar of fermenting fruit forgotten, ready to explode. And she must explode, she must derail, she must fly and spin and sing. High and tangy notes that ring through the air, chartreuse and periwinkle, to perch on the eyes of the peacocks tail while she crumples in release.