I'd like to write about goosebumps on pale skin, covered slightly by a lace dress. A cigarette burning just below the knee pinched between two fingers whose knuckles are just starting to bruise like the plum colored bruises along the collarbone. The ones that are joined by pieces of stringy hair still damp from a shower in a rusted and stained tub. In an equally stained bathroom with cracked tile and a creaky door. The door leading to an apartment occupied by paraphernalia and people who claim to really be living. Mattresses lacking box springs lay around, some holding men with unshaven faces and dirty fingernails, and bottles half wrapped in brown paper bags. Just like the paper bags that liter the ground around the apartment. Sometimes those bags blow by the run-down diner that holds truckers and overworked waitresses. Waitresses who chain smoke and pour coffee only to go home to an empty house, lacking a daughter whose probably out with her boyfriend. The one with the car whose burgundy paint is chipping. The one who tries to be faithful, but loses himself and can only return after both hands have been placed on the inner thighs of a girl with too much eyeliner. He didn't mean it, and neither did the girl when she led him to a bedroom. The man doesn't say anything about that though, he just blankly stares at his girlfriend sticking a dirty needle into her arm. She smiles at him, and he sits down his cigarette. He holds her face in his hands and kisses her neck until her body slumps over and gets cold just like the cigarette left burning in the bedside table. The boyfriend runs and gets in his chipped car and drives through the rain to a gas stations where he turns off his car and cries. He doesn't see the girl in the dirty flip-flops and hoodie three sizes too big, but she sees him. She asks if he needs any company which she is more than capable to give after the exchange of a few bills wrapped in rubber bands. After she buys a pack of Marbols she shuffles down the street headed to a house where vines climb the sides and the side walk is cracked. A house that holds a stepdad that sometimes drinks too much and loses his boundaries. He stumbles into a room painted yellow, after a month of begging in the first grade, and gets in the old twin bed that creaks too loud. Loud enough that the thirteen year old brother in the next room can't stand it any longer.he steps into his ripped up tennis shoes and lights a joint that the older boys sold to him. The swing on the porch shakes under his weight, but he can't smoke it so he flushes it. He lays back down and pulls a pillow over his faces and clenches his fists, crying for his sister who can't help that she is beautiful. He also cries for his stepdad who was molested his entire life. He knows this because he read it in a ripped up notebook where secrets were messily scribbled on the pages, and stuffed under a bed. It was found when the brother was looking for a gun to scare the stepdad that hurt his sister. Later it was used on himself and found and found by a note that no one could make out.