She’s each soul of those
who slip on dark rooftops at night
Every brick of every tenement
wearing her bullet wounds like rings
on her slender pale fingers.
She has long blonde hair
golden grain alike
Always dyed dark, hidden under thy hood.
That’s how she goes
unnoticed
forever bruised
*****, beaten and hurt.
She lurks in stone archways
weeping, screaming into the night
She hasn’t slept in ages
yet she feels so restful
facing cool dank pavement.
She would kiss every sculpture in Saxon Garden
Paskuda – she calls one of them, signed so proundly – Historia
She would try to drown herself
in cold waters of her beloved river
Which saved her so many times before
that it wouldn’t even be capable
of doing anything but loving her
and her beautiful blue eyes
and the way she chokes on her memories
every single night
walking down old stone stairs
of her forsaken streets.
Non sum quails eram
says her ****** tattoo
inked with blood of her dear children
and cherished lovers.
And every other day she’d try to destroy herself
she’d rot
she’d burn
she’d cry
Because she’s reckless
yet so sophisticated
So beautiful
and so wasted.