the miles travelled her. all crusting scars and drying blood. all her choices an open wound. a quiet suicide taking place over countless years.
she measured time in hard and soft. a stuttering apocalypse of pleasure and fury.
gathering her voice like little dolls. plastic bodies strangely ambivalent as their dresses dwindled. a panic of naked erupting under her skin.
the truth a lingering poison.
her crumbling bridges more sober than drunk. she kissed the devil and thanked him for his patience.
she never knew a single one. all of them strangers.
only years later realizing she'd lost all the games she'd thought she'd won.