She’s the nervous wreck blending into the whitewashed walls
Sweating stolen morphine and
Mumbling “I’m sorry’s” to the bloodstained floors.

Her morning consists of citrus breath and caffeine eyes
Painting her face with reds and blues

Before building her army of bad jokes and hiding places
Tearing off her premature wings.

Her reveries and dilated lack of sanity
Caught on tape
Too explicit for her twisted braids.

Now she’s living in trees and sleeping on trains.

She speaks in the language of greeting cards
With the lips of a runaway showgirl

Drowning in a sea of books she never read
Lusting after fictional characters and cartoon colors

Kneeling at her bedside
Singing praises to prom queens:

“Beautiful isn’t as beautiful as beautiful sounds.
Make me fearless.
Call me beauty-less.”