She sits on the table her head tilted back and her mouth open wide ready to catch all our unfiltered trash.
Planted firmly on the worn wood along side the water rings from long forgotten and unattended cups.
Her round body adjacent his long frigid fingers, tediously tapping the decay off his cancer.
She gathers up her strength and holds her pose like a marble statue at display in the louvre.
Like a switch she shuts her brain off from reality and allows him to dump his filthy bitterness into her.
Her lips close along with her eyes and chokes down his worthlessness, equivocating at the burning as it stamps itself to the inner wall of her stomach.
She solemnly reminds herself that is she is beautiful and that she is strong.
That without her dust and char would violently float amidst.
Her chalked and caked lips reopen awaiting the next flick of his fingertips.
She sits on the coffee table wishing it was coffee that we were drinking and that she was a coaster.
But we dont drink coffee; we smoke cigarettes and she is just an ashtray catching all of our secrets and regrets.