friday

broken souls slump against battered brick walls the avenue drowning in cheap perfume drawing in the tired slick pavement melts the neon lights, bathing the cold street in red reflections she puffs on a cigarette smoke clearing her head as it fills her lungs her lips taste are made of whiskey and a million well kept secrets her smile never reveals too much but she has learned not to be afraid she has learned to keep her head up she sighs and straightens her back it’s showtime

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Written by

utterbumfuzzlement

15 / F / USA

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