bleary eyed and zoned,
bloodshot bound on the uneven paint on the ceiling,
she is chewing her nails until blood trickles down into her palm;
what does the reflection reveal?
perhaps answers to pensive and tentative questions
why is she still awake?
why are her eyes red?
things that insinuate tears, pain,
after all, pools of blood never equate to pretty portraits.
the night time air settles as the molecules of the gloaming mix
with the dust settling in her arms,
her hair completely still tickles the small of her back.
it's been down for so long, blonde,
somehow able to keep a shine despite the midnight light;
her nightly duet slow dance charm with sleep is delayed tonight,
perhaps by the snow falling outside the window.
she needs sleeping lessons,
before she can dance. so sleep pretty pretty girl,
wash your hands and sleep.