I can't pay my rent today. I can't write poetry, either, because I took a pill, that I spent my rent money on, and I can't write on this pill. But this pill promised me it would make me beautiful.
Imagine making a cocktail with crushed glass instead of ice. It would **** you, but it'd be so beautiful. Blood would drip from your lips like lipstick, deadly and red, but it'd be so beautiful.
Imagine paying your rent with poetry. You'd be back on the streets, and strangers probably would think that maybe, pretty white girl, you're a self-inflicted martyr, a heroine against the culture or maybe just that you just do ******,