white clouds into her lungs, the pretty girl,
ripping her clothes on the sink -
stumble into the smoke, and gasp its illusions.

we're all wretched,
and no one rises.

she lies back on the man-dirtied bed of hers and
drifts.
we're all substance, and we're all abused.

we're all wretched,
and no one rises.

climb if you can, little girl, or just lie back and let the whiteness
shroud you in its powdered lying.
the things we'd all do for a little substance, the things we all do for a little abuse.

your clothes are too fervent, aren't they?
and removed too fast, and all for this substance,
all this abuse.

rip your clothes on the sink
into it.