Middle of The Night


I'm trying to be better than the lipstick slathered girl in the mirror
concave eyes hollowed out from the lack of dreams she let herself realize
rivers of victimized blood slipping past the flesh onto the back of
cold hands gripping the white ceramic bathroom sink
open wounds deeper than the train track marks that divide her arm into
all the things she ever did, all the words they ever said,
ideas she began to stitch together into a veil that masked her perception
of what the sweet smell of the future was like
or the bitter taste of lessons learned
her cheeks the size of globs of slime that ooze down the drainage pipes
a sheet beneath the walls of her grimey motel room
I'm trying to be better than this shameful thing in the mirror
standing in the bathroom like a broken robot on the verge of self destruction
but it's 12:47 am and the bottle is almost empty of it's amber stars
and it is the rush that's keeping my blood from flooding the room
because if I shut my eyes and escape beyond the boundaries of sleep
I don't plan to wake up

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