i can see in her eyes the death of her child,
the hollowness that goes past her soul and
halfway through my own;
hers, teeth that have held onto the very first
memory of cigarette smoke, every grey swirl
- orange yellow stains that reek,
the colour leaves a smell, a bitter taste
that has scuffed itself across the backs
of my eyes;
a life described through each wave of stretched
skin that pretends to be fingers, every
odd twist of hands and arms that desperately need
to leave the conversation by the staccato pauses of
syllables and elegant head turns;
stories, written in the dark veins on her arms like
fault traces, wait to tear her apart and
leave the pages of her mind strewn across the
shag carpet of the American dream.
