streetwalker

she lies lazily
on the cemetery
bench,
liking the
place
and revelling in her
liking,
as
she drags slowly on a
cigarette
as though she were
fellating
the long red-tipped
tube.
she fantasises
about how things
might have
been: remembering
how,
as a little girl,
she had wanted
to be a
model. the gravestones
line up
standing to attention,
erect,
saluting her
achievements,
like the
tramlines
in her arm,
both of then
tunnels to a
dead
land.
she sighs
as a child might
sigh
when she has woken up
on Christmas day
only to
find
it’s not morning yet
and she must return to
the shadows.
as the
blade
brushes her thin
wrist
she smiles
gently,
either at her
memories,
or
at the warm
thought of her sweet
dissolution.