Arctic raindrops hit the back porch glass,
Singing the sad tale of blue angels.
Queasiness fills her stomach,
As she breathes more smoke into her black lungs.

Her emerald jeweled lighter sparkled,
Reflected off of the single light bulb.
The savoriness of fruit satisfied her tongue,
More than a sip of whipped ***** could ever do.

The bathroom mirror still haunted her,
Only to proclaim the scars and bruises.
From inside and out,
She still debris as another victim to herself.