Wednesday, 4 February 2015
Crossing back over a burnt bridge
She was living ass to mouth. Puckering all her holes and pumping pickelhauben. The tears rolled down the back of her eyeballs and poisoned her throat. Poker faced but toxic; her hair and bones were built by absorbing copious servings of seminiferous splatter. Coke fuelled. Angrily passive. She kept a razor blade in her purse to remind herself she was alive. To hold her feelings to ransom. She'd pound away all night until the dollars rained down. But it was never enough. It could never bring back her daughter, and it could never heal the part of her that was broken. That thickly scarred callus that allowed her to survive.