The mascara deadened her eyes into ceaseless black holes of sorrow that held the beauty of a stained promise of promiscuity. And I thought her broken like her bitten nails splintered in chipped nail polish. Broken like the skin over her chapped lips that the red lipstick exposed like blood; wet and dripping in a murderous kiss by her tobacco flavored saliva. Broken like the scars that perfumed her flesh with the scent of cheap alcohol as the shards of glass intoxicate her veins with drunken slices and cuts. Broken in her breath as breathing became an addiction to remind her that the dead feeling inside is so much like the grave she craves to live in. Broken! Broken like my desire to breathe life into a rotting corpse.