Her white lips breathe
In the burnt taste of
Lights end, snowflakes filling the air.
Tonight she will struggle again
To the hands of many strange men.
She's stuck in a loop,
With no way out,
But lots of ways in.
She daydreams of being eight,
Of no wasting or crumbling face.
Of pasteries in the bakery
But it's the worst things that come free.
Inside she goes mad,
But outside, tonight, another man is cold
And looking more for just a hand to hold.
She wonders how the angels fly,
As she stands there ripped gloved and weary eyed.
She stands there slowly covered in white
Hoping for a chance to fade out
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