You sit there numb and nervous from unnecessary narcotics,
losing feeling of your body yet you move like you're on fire.
With each violent twitch comes a more comfortable comatose.
Letters jumbled,
you type as you are speaking,
mumbled.
Behind a dimly lit phone screen I watch you slip away.

In your house a broken face is the same as a broken plate,
it happens all the time.

In your house a cry for help is the same as a telemarketer call,
unanswered.

In your house you have learned to blame your bruises on falling,
in your house you have been told to lie about what goes on inside.

In your house is where you went insane,
in your house is where you left the bullet in his brain.

Sometimes I hug her in the morning and she smells like **** water,
ontop of her head is a big messy bun,
on her body is a flowing skirt and a crop top.

Her lips are full and her eyes are wide and shes lovely to me.

Sometimes I hug her in the morning and she smells like cigarettes,
once I let her go the smell lingers on my sweater and I love it because it reminds me of her.

She had dark circles under her eyes,
pine needles in her hair and shes lovely to me.

Sometimes I hug her in the morning and she smells like roses,
wide eyes and beautiful,
quiet yet well spoken.

She is a girl of many identities and shes lovely to me.