medicating a grief that fosters self-destruction.
Openly distraught, she takes a pen in slightly bloodied fingers,
tethering her soul to a shaky but intact foundation of self.
Holding her breath, she exhales a bit of yesterday:
Evocative innocence her most valuable asset,
renouncing reluctance, she makes her living trying to stay alive,
irrevocably inscribing 'whore' in caligraphy upon her soul.
No one cared to mention that permanance can haunt,
granted, it may be the only stable thing she has.
Caught in a snarl of whorrible insecurity and untouchable defiance,
reality is: there is no return policy on ones soul, as it is a used item.
Youth begotten, she returns to her canvas.