Upon meeting her, ‘Tis heaven,’ she said to the deathly sixteen year old her mouth plastered on her face so damaged, twisting like her heart, wringing the salt, the salt that irritated the fissures red and raging carved deep into her sunken checks.

The youngest lover whispered‘Slut!’ the night she wore those leather pants dancing close under the fluorescent lights of the occupational therapy room; the seducers knee dissolving into her mindlessly willing crack of the heart of this child’s blooming lust wanting to get to there, to the mentor inside,  unbeknownst that it was a crushed doll,  barely managing to utter the scream that smacked onto her damaged face; and how her heart wrung salt.

Her pallid and fine boned hand  shattered  in the air when used  as speech  while pieces of the dead drifted above, her body spread upon  the foyer’s couch,her long arms widely gesticulating; the young girl watched but could not listen, her bare feet buried in carpeting deep,red,benefiting the private patient’s entre-vous.

Beyond them were people so to speak, crumbs carelessly left to drop after a bite taken from a strata rife with sodden morsels steaming hot with bubbling anxiety; people so to speak, their squelching psychosis creeping the already haunted corridors, the walls of which invisibly smudged by thousands of fingerprints begging for their identities.

Fingerprints polished off the glass three times daily by nurses cosy in white-might standing behind their fortress of their meticulously kept station,dosing out breakfast, lunch and dinner medication to the diagnosed revolving in that door, breathing in, breathing out breakdown.

The young woman’s mind easily modified produced for her a kiss; on her puffed check her parched lithium lips rested momentarily, her sad sac arms embraced sluggishly, and then there was the steadiness and melancholy of the pulsating pull of her innocence.

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