Alcohol coats over her synapses,
slipping easily through all the cracks in her mentality.
She dulls like steel against his memory –
she contracts into herself and curls
in a fetal position,
and she sees nothing.
She hears nothing.
She feels nothing.
These Vodka-stained walls keep pumping,
force-feeding clots into her belly while she writhes,
her fists pressing knuckle-mark-purples from the inside,
spewing blood from unwilling nostrils and gasping
want to live like this
She’s a complete anomaly,
covering her face with her fingers to keep them away,
selfish-back-to-those-putrid-yellow-lights on the sidewalk
and her hair all torn-tatters of silk against her.
Her veins are rooting through skin into her footprints.
Her face is dripping vomit on the cement and
dislocation on the sky,
and her wounds are only drying her out more
while she smolders.
She’s turning to cinder, and oh god
why can’t he come get her.
She’s waiting and
She’s a ribbons-in-mud-puddles person,
a chronic rebirth into the wrong century,
the wrong continent,
amidst all the wrong faces,
and she has no meaning while she’s lost
in a forest of crumbling flesh.
Her name holds no significance
in the mouths of the voiceless.
She’ll stand on her knees,
and she’ll pray till she has faith,
and she’ll sit on her fists
till they crack.
until he rescues her.
while her marrow turns to ash
within her bones.
where she is.
**"Well when one is lost I suppose it’s good advice to stay where you are until someone
finds you" -- Alice in Wonderland's "Very Good Advice"