Internal Bleeding

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 for air and gasping for air. I don’t want to live like this anymore. and gasping for air. 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 burning up. She’s burning. 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. She’ll wait until he rescues her. She’ll wait while her marrow turns to ash within her bones. She’ll wait just exactly 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"