The guitar pick necklace rested in the hollow of her mottled throat like a chandelier in an old house. A pair of fish net clad legs counted the seconds like a cellulite pocked metronome.
Taking a drag off of a half spent Pal Mall under the neon glow of a no smoking sign, she bobs there like a retired row boat tied to a disintegrating pier, well passed her prime but she still floats out of sheer spite.
She stares at the deep lines in her palsied palm and quietly remembers what porcelain felt like underneath her fingertips. But now, all she has are tremors, a dirty pair of baby shoes and a dog eared photograph of her lifes greatest regret.
Her breath started to come in short gasps as she ran to the bathroom.
The sign reminded her to kindly not smoke and she gives it the finger on the way by. She pulls out her pipe. She's gonna fly.
The meth chases away the deep green eyes and that smell..that special smell....she never cries when she's high.
That's why her bra is full of condoms and foil packets...her barely there shorts don't have pockets.
It dulls the shame of what she is about to do next. She can taste the salty flesh...and so she washed her mouth out with a bottle of Jack.
The only time she says God's name is when she is straddling a stranger. She's caught astride the fugue state of a high ride. It's a transaction without expectation except for the occassional black eyes, split smile and bruised thighs; penance recorded in sores on her skin.
She is pain. She eats it. Her teeth grind on the marrow and the poison in her blood then fall out when they've had enough. Until....even her smile..like her stockings...like her heart...is full of holes.
Copyright © Robin Regan | Year Posted 2018
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