She is sitting in a room with white curtains,
watching them fill an empty room with empty space.

She writes to a God that doesn't answer,
Because she doesn't use the right address.

She seals her tears in a paper envelope,
and hands them to a man who will never deliver them.

She twirls her hair around her little finger,
watching the sun fade again and again.

She is ***** by men with whiskey tongues,
and she clings to them for comfort.

She is staining her sheets with the blood from her head,
and she never washes it away.