The toys have been put away,
Behind her glossed rails of 4 inch heels,
Blistered feet,
Cut skin,
No accidental stumbling over anymore,
Though pay for her drinks and she'll fall at your feet.
With a Childlike desire to be picked up and held,
Lifted from the rut the bottle placed her in,
Milk bottles turning to vodka,
Bottle in the morning, bottle before bed,
Gently nurtured to sleep by the illegal highs traveling through her blood stream,
Head rocking back and forth,
Heart thumping to the beat,
Ultrasounds now turned to baseline,
She's Knowing of where she lives,
But not that she's living.
Idolising of something sweet
In this world becoming sour.
YOU ARE READING
Food for thought (poems)
PoetryA bunch of poetry that can be seen in many different ways. A lot about growing up :)
