What's with all these girls living with the consequences of pretty? Picking up jokes with a habit and some smokes. She can't read his blood. She can't see his frayed veins, they bleed inside out. She doesn't know which direction eyes are supposed to roll.

That abrasive touch, one of lying and of lust and I haven't felt the curves of hips in months, it mottled her slender shoulders. He is brusque, unsure and shaking, do you want something to drink? No, she just wants something to hold, something full of leaving and full of feathers and dust. She takes his hand, a comfort object that feels a lot like how her great grandfather described war. The calluses read like mountains.

But can anyone ever really be sure of anything? She can't tell the difference between a boy and an idea. She can't know the way to where owls sleep, sighing out proverbs while they dream. She can't ask him if he really knows how to keep his knuckles clean.

(Which way to the hospital? Yup, it's a .32, right through my left eye socket. Yes, again. Ain't nothin' left there no more.)