ur sleeping on the couch

junkies & torn bus tickets

she's sitting idle, bus passing her, her hands clawing clutching clasped around the same bundle of flowers she never doesn't have. her eyes are burning mellow yellow warm like sunlight, hollow and staring and oozing like honey. hair falls in straight tufts, bitter bleach and ammonia like booze and heroin she's forgotten to remember to dye her roots she's forgotten her roots endlessly annoyed and searching for where she came from where she's supposed to go she's asking the magnolias in her hands these questions and hoping for answers. she can't shake the feeling of being watched.
her skin is crawling with the color of curses, her nails bitten down to the bed the bed a bed is what she really wants, should she be jealous of the tips of her fingers? legs crossed and sitting on the bench with her head hung low she can taste the nicotine in her throat along with the ash and broken glass he fed her and told her it was crystal. the bruises on her arms printed on her she doesn't think they're ugly at all in fact she thinks at least now there's proof her body is still a body. her lips are chapped and peeling and bleeding and she's licking them over with smoke stained saliva her blood must be hot as the fires in hell because she never dwells.

the flowers in her hand are dead and gone and resemble her, dead and gone and clutched in a good-for-nothing's hand.