she is musty air; a humid day. she is collapsed on the ground, about to crash out. watching herself from far, far away.
she is long, rambling poems, and photo prints. rotting hay. the ashen scent of self-hatred; just barely kept at bay.
an aching back, and tired eyes. and we’ll tell her to stop. we’ll beg her to sleep. but she won’t listen. because she may be young, and stupid. but she will not be weak.
even as the spots start to form in her vision. and as yet another scab forms on her cheek. and maybe she can’t breathe anymore, but… it’s fine. it doesn’t matter.
and at least she has a stack of dollar bills to love her, at the end of the week.