She said she needed it.

She needed it the way a panic attack needs to be rocked in the corner with its knees to her chest.

She needed it.

She said black was her favorite color
because it went with everything.
It matched the way her thoughts catapulted through the polluted faces on the street,
it covered her.

She said it tasted *****.

It tasted like the lies that dripped off the tongues of every pair of lips who ever thought they were close to her.

It tasted familiar.

She needed it to forget.
Forget that she could watch the mountains devour the skies and still feel nothing.
Nothing but the pavement burning through her heels
as she choked on the noose that we call humidity.

She needed it.

It clung to her skin like needles
prodding at the ***** clouded eyes that washed over her and the stains on her skin.
She needed it.

She said it helped her to number the days.
The days that she had left before she was nothing but the ash she flicked off the ends of her fingers.

She needed it.