She’s a fallen angel exploring this earth with intention of stumbling on something real. She’s searched high and low for reality to grip her tight. She wants to suffocate beneath the weight of truths, wants to be hung with a rope spun of honesty.
Wandering the sharp, rocky ground with bare soles. Bloody footprints mark her path every step of the way. She has been extroverted in an introverted kind of way. Loudly seeking, quietly disappointed time and time again.
Like a tree stump with rings signalling it’s life length she is tattooed by the year. Each inky permanence reads of her most monumental annual experience. First of the first of the year she has needle taken to skin. She’s running out of blank space, almost head to toe coloured now.
She’s never cut her hair and it flows along the ground when it’s not wrangled into an elastic. It’s dark, it’s straight, it’s full of secrets.
Falling into bed with another stranger, white sheets turn red with yet more lies and she weeps in the heat of his passion. She feels nothing between her lungs, between her eyes, between her alabaster thighs. For all his moans she detests herself.
His sweat catches what little light glows upon them and her strings of saliva glisten like thread woven of her silver angel wings. Her body is like a rag doll, succumbing to his tossing and turning. In and out, its all just a fucking motion. It’s got no feeling, it’s dull, she’s disappointed but he’s not.
Morning cums more enthusiastically than she ever did. She drags her perfect, angel form to the shower and tries to drown herself in the steam. Scorching water mottles her complexion, lights are down and she catches her reflexion.
She whispers to herself, “Is there no true love on this planet for me? It seems I have touched a thousand souls but none have even grazed mine”.