iii.

She screams out, hands bloodied from broken bottles and cans,
Digging through garbage and waste
To salvage anything they abhor. 
Mittens, maybe more. A wristband.
(Anything to do with you, Amor.)

Harsh; she parts the tides of trash,
Kicking and wailing, smearing blood
on a ruined little card until
She's taken indoors by the whiplash.
(Arms flailing, then bound to her sides.)

Times are hard,
But you're still my Valentine.