She dreams of fame through mists of blood. She seeks eternity in sex and lust, in the planes of his stomach, the plumpness of his lips. She shatters like a clockwork, every day at three in the morning under the neon lights of the latest club.

She has a dozen secrets hidden in the twist of her lips. Her eyes are older than her face, older than the body she gives away more freely than she should. She loses herself in the cracks in the pavement and finds herself hours later under another faceless man.

She craves and she craves and she craves and her fingernails leave welts on the back of another unsuspecting victim. She’s the love it and leave it kind, the love it and break it kind, the one who will take you in and toss you out and the one you should not remember but can’t forget. Perhaps, if we were the civilized type, we would sit down opposite each other and talk, perhaps we would eat a meal together and find out that we do not fit together in the way people are supposed to.

But time is too fleeting and so she grasps and gasps and breathes and when the pieces don’t fit and the heart remains untouched, she wipes her hands on yet another discarded shirt and moves on.