bleed away this hope
(and maybe, it never really was there.)

She purges herself away, and in the end, I'm afraid there's not going to be anything left, her bones bruising against her dry skin. I'm tired of asking her are you okay just to have her smile at me (her lips opened; revealing decayed teeth and shallow scars) and whisper I'm okay, her lungs filling up with this tree moss vomit, like swerved pieces of dental floss, her stomach acids pouring out the toilet seat, her brittle fingernails pushed down, down, down. When she walks she almost becomes invisible (and you wouldn't notice her if it wasn't for the way her bones and joints creak when she moves, her legs screaming in ragged protest, sagging her down.)

"You know," I say, "one day you're gonna die, and there's not going to be anybody at the funeral."

She closes her sunken eyes, the dark circles tightening around her skin and bringing the cigarette to her lips, she lets out a puff of cyanide smoke (like releasing things, like Pandora's box and maybe she's just one more disease waiting to destroy you, and herself.) "Have you," she slowly whispers, trembling as the wind sings through the air (and fuck, it's ninety-nine degrees outside and she's wearing a hoodie, her bones gagging the thick fabric) "given up on me to?"

"You chewed the pieces up too small, I can't pick them up anymore."

"I guess then," she begins, choking down the tears as they raise through her amber eyes, waiting to drown her in the beautiful neon glow, "this time; the silver lining's really gone."