Flowers crawl under their jagged fingernails
Addicts rushing to the next fix
Ignoring the death that surrounds them
Ignoring the hurt and the pain
Ignoring that most of the time they **** instead of save
Within themselves they dismiss the decay that rests in wrinkles and eyes as fifteen becomes fifty becomes an obsession with an known end point
Something completely fixed but strangely floating in flux between what they feel and what they don't want to feel