i.
shaky dark smoke leaves the hallowed chambers of lungs, staining the walls with its thick and sticky tar. its ghostly fingers dig in and scratch up the exits leading through the mouth, bringing an extra sense of dread to be exhaled out into the world.
ii.
burning alcohol slides down the throat, the bitter taste lasting longer than bruises ever care to stay on skin; the soft buzz to be used as an excuse to counter the faults and obscure the thoughts of a foolish drunkard staggering towards a stranger, the air moist and hot from flesh on flesh and lips on lips.
iii.
blood drips down raw knuckles, calloused from a fistfight with humanity; rope-burned wrists free from their tight bindings, raised and reeking with pride and power. the rotten flesh blooms with forlorn flowers of gnashed teeth, split lips, and black eyes.
iv.
they've come back to whisper words of intervention (sickly sweet with bile-inducing sincerity)— it comes a soft kiss on the temples and on the tears rolling down naively against the cheeks; their warm arms around a trembling waifish body. they care. they care. they care.
