she will cradle her head
in patchwork hands
and her
lips crack and out
spills words
explosively.

tears trace peculiar
tracks down
porcelain cheekbones
that jut out
much too harshly
under the dying stars.

cold moonbeams
dance over her hips
and
light upon
the desperation
in her eyes.

invisible bruises are painted
onto her
soul
and when she
smiles
you can almost see them.

a cigarette pressed to
dry cracking lips
will be all she wants
when she
is slowly
slipping.

she will never
breathe a word of
the betrayal
she felt
when her own body
failed.

and when her skin is
paper-white
you will press
trembling kisses to the
backs of her hands
and cry.