She's drowning in all this oxygen,
half dead in a bathtub full of ice cold air;
she whispers through clenched teeth
that all the trees are dying,
decaying and fading into the sky,
leaves turning to iron stars that fall
from the sky onto our heads
until our crowns break open
and out pour the dreams of generations,
a rainbow liquid streaming down our bodies.

But nothing changes.

She's burning holes through her skin
with just her fingertips and cigarettes,
brushing her hair with an acid laced comb,
screaming softly into oblivion as
the oceans turn to sunshine;
drying up like dead philosophers' tongues
wriggling between our fingers,
filling up our lungs with oh so salty water.
Soon there will be nothing left,
and the waves will be but a memory.

But nothing changes.

She's sewing silk into her shoulders,
pushing the needle through her skin,
smiling at the bloody black ribbon,
singing to all her long lost souls.

Tonight the mountains crumble into butterflies;
they'll fly away from our world,
leaving us in one dimension, flat and boundless.
We will try to speak, but our mouths are filled
with all the thoughts we thought were true,
and eventually we will die,
while she'll wear the sun around her throat.

But nothing changes.

And as everything stays the same,
she grows thinner every day;
eyes wide as if to terrorize,
thoughts drifting into fantasy
where fays live and nothing dies
except for the horrified little girl
shooting something into her blood,
breathing smoke and chemicals,
chewing pretty little white pills.

As demons plague her mind,
she screams and thrashes in the grass,
clothes ripped and stained a
colorful rainbow of crudeness.
She's the definition of the opposite of living,
but not quite dead,
or at least not today.

Because overdose tastes better tomorrow.