The Disease of Trust

She wore the gap upon her brow. A quiet cough under her breath. The stillness. The threat. Of sad eyes smiling upon her skin. Leeches growing fat on the illness in her blood.

The parachute of touch not opening. The jump from a plane that didn't crash. The limp of solitude on broken crutches. The viocdin the darkness prescribes convincing found skin it's gone. Panic in proper doses minimizes the loss.

She counted the bricks between the windows. As the building stuttered down to her through the fractured rays of sun. With a needle hanging from its arm. With cracked sunglasses on its forehead. She imagined what might be behind the glass. But held her breath. Until it was dark enough that she couldn't tell.

We're not ugly. We're not beautiful. We're the blow jobs our mothers couldn't spit out. Tucked in the way of tomorrow. Dead as a speed bump under a flat tire.