Sensitive.
whether

Too
or
Always

Is a victory of an accusation.

My eyes are slits
As my reflection is not familiar
— with her
But she has my attention
She is smoking from her ears
Her voice trembles
Her lips are thin lines in dry chaps
And her tone is well—
Seriously monotone

Like nails on a chalky stone
It sent violent shivers of discomfort
Up my spine
down again
This body
A zombie

I snapped back to my face of wasted time
She is an escapee from her own death
Her tone crosses me
Like a knife on my bone
In solemn droning
To the girl with bloodshot eyes
Though not from tears
But from bursting inside.