Her face is every single painting you’ve ever seen
All of these depressing etchings frozen in time
The red wine lipstick-stained nights
Frightfully beaten to within a quivering inch of her emaciated being by a behemoth boyfriend – the one who smokes only Woodbine
Crying into her sweet potato soup come low-carbs lunchtime, a model’s existence – never so very downright ironic in all of its life
All of the sweet beaten right on out of her
The manically slurred princess voice fretfully regretful to meet
Seemingly pretentious when really she’s anything but
The flavour there only minus a confident ability to snare any of it whatsoever
Her dreadlocked hair a shock to the seriously lonesome system
When these eyes seem to ply themselves in nothing but turmoil – cascading down upon needle-thin fingers
Her smile tries as it might to linger – right there the entirely wrong kind of snare altogether
Not what we are looking for
Sadly prepared to be remembered for all of the wrong reasons – a bed-hopper with slippers for feet come every second a.m.
Dependent of course upon the loneliness of these charming white liars carrying only for her a pair of sniper eyes
These men treating her like the meat she let herself appear to be right in the crazily abstract and distracted beginning
She hasn’t written a word let alone willed herself to sing in forever

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