Finger tips slip through the cracks of her sanity painted in vanity. Far from
The age of innocence when the streets seemed like a safe place to play. She not only knows heroffender she was once a lover of him, taking the insidious signs of affection lightly. As the cigarette burns slow she stares out the window onto the streets as if searching for that little girl. Looking for something to spark joy other than the bitter taste of tequila from last nights search for freedom.
2 o’clock hits as she lays in bed beginning to contenplate whether to continue this path or walk down the alter on Sunday and come back home. She chooses the first option after only a minute . Sunday service seems a distant memory, the front pew is only a mirror image of her sins she sits in. It’s always easy to pretend that she’s still the innocent adolescent in the white dress, protected from the world and all of its evils .