her steps are beautiful
they run it rough
sometimes she doesn't believe it's true
because, I'm afraid to say, their words stain

(and)

she sits
inside the
small cubical
breathing hard
pulsing veins
she won't
admit she's
going down

(and)

you tell her she's pretty
just the way she is
you like her smile, however much it falters
in your wake

(and)

she can't
even touch
the photograph
green-tinted
so printed
by love
but it's
all wrong

(and)

he knows exactly how this works
he's done it so many times
she shuts her eyes relentlessly when he's in her
but he doesn't match the cringe

(and)

she says
he likes
it rough
she says
he has
sweetened up
so honest
so ripe

(and)

she leans over, clutching sides
as her stomach burns the excess shit
that she'd rather burn the memory with
gone, the photograph so tinted green

(and)

she only wishes it was over