The brush hits the canvas with the softness of a mothers touch.
She is naked;
standing vulnerable in the cross fire of the days.
She wipes her breast with a wrist full of tears,
the blood drips down her body and pools in her navel.
She is silent;
She hears a conversation in her mind,
never ending loneliness across the silent sunder;
they are still.
tasting her whiskey tears as they fall into the glass of melted ice.
She is lost;
a childhood wrecked by the vices of wrong choices and guilt,
failed relationships, abortions, death and sex.