Red lights are gently painting my room
Gracing half of my mattress that rests on the floor
As I lean upon the window sill
I send empty glances to strangers
Only wishing for one to occupy my time
Until my neighbor finishes stitching up holes in my dress
In exchange for a pack of Marlboro Reds
My frail bones are aching for validation
Causing me to become desperate for the ability
To throw my skin on the floor
Tainted in prints
And beg why
Why it may only maintain it's survival
With the touch of wicked sin
Feeding off of high heels, drug store mascara, and soulless hands
Red lights
Why are there so many red lights?