waiting quietly
she holds herself close
and tries to mask the
smoke in her hair
by whispering
sweet nothings
into the air

in the form of questions
she discovers
she does not believe in god,
but this love in her gut
refuses to be ignored
so she bows to its
existence.

watching intently
for the stars to arrive
she counts the scars
on her thighs
and tries to rearrange them
into constellations

stuttering quietly
she picks herself up
from the floor,
she plucks a few roses,
And she ignores the thorns