she sleeps in til noon
devoid of harnesses of human sheathes
smokes her cigarettes
in her leisure
shuffles her fingers
muses on memories
makes new arguments
shields old harborings
she's an indie queen
former limelight tween
sold her lungs and student loans
for lives singular and wholly in betterment
life on a string, slowly threading the needlepoint
catching twinkles, exploiting stars
staying up late
shelving scars
pretty and accurate
pretty insanely practical
storming the pan-am
starlets and figures of pandemonium
cash in hand
guard down
meddle with these kids
sore and run up the tallies
dirty messed up conversations, from previous
wavering over the complexities
of linear and unhinged family ties
it doesn't have to be so much of a car crash
mending spoons
digging out the hearts
wondering whose cold you've got
holding onto fingertips
of a stranger you wish
would just leave it be
and keep sake
only stolen time
in exchange for this one last lie.
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