Once upon a time she could have been a model;

now formerly slender limbs are paper thin and

bruised a brownish-purple, showing off her

spider web veins, threadbare and tired from overuse.

Her chapped lips glossed over in lustrous crimson balm,

her hair dyed, and fluffed into a cascade of sexy curls,

she lounges on street corners, pouting at cars and

chewing dying cigarette butts, as her arms pimple in the cold,

whilst too-tight skirt and see through shirt flaunt her gaunt,

anorexic-thin body; her heels ache in strappy shoes, and she

flicks her finger up at scraggy boys and menial cat calls, then

leans against scraping wall and waits nonchalantly for next client;

she played her fairytale backwards and went missing in the storm,

(now lost naivety begs remembrance but) she’d rather forget old dreams.