a marionette with a broken heartstring
posed no more of a threat to her than a knife to her throat.
the thought of hanging free, carefree,
from the puppeteer tainted her salty tears
streaming mascara down porcelain features. a blank canvas to recreate.

but it didn't matter how far she blew
in the wind, or the sights she saw through her broken, jaded eyes,
the scent of love, lust, longing, lingered
in the crevices
of the very oak she was sculpted from. reborn.
it followed close by, wherever she landed
through the gentle homely aromas of aged whiskey and cheap cigarettes.

he'd sold out;
a whore to his own sophistic creation.

-she was in control of herself now, but still
covered in his fragrance
of failure and self-pity it seemed impossible to leave behind.
the very spores embedded, poisoning her mind.

she struggled to live.

3:40 am – first 'poem' completed in about a year. lack of sleep. excess of whiskey. it shows. sorry.