She wrote about guns caressing her body in the summertime.
She got lost in the mountains to purposely create panic within herself and kept walking through spiderwebs until they coated her eyelashes.

In August, she dreamed of October
but never wanted November to come.

At 5 am she takes walks on the river before the sun comes up
and listens to music that hurts her ears through headphones.

She goes to work like none of this ever happens.

She sits in the dark until 12 am,
when her mind finally decides the day is done,
there is no more suffering to be had.

She dreams about knives.
She blogs about columbine.
She blogs about him.
She wishes he knew the streets can't love him more than she can.

She touches herself until it hurts.
She pops her blisters.
She waits for him to come back.
She knows he never will.

She wonders what would happen if
she flung herself off of the bridge a half mile from her apartment.

She writes about him.
Panic and sadness ensue.

She knows people call her a mystery, she loves this.
She decides to deny everything that makes her feel human.
She thinks she can do without it.
She thinks if she could go without breathing, she would.

She waits for the sun to come up.
She knows it never will.