High and dry.

In the Winter
the world took a bite
out of us.
My bones crack
and celebrate
on the filthy,
rolling stones
passing through
our little town.
I'm not cast
in short dresses or an evening of chaos
seen only through shaking glass,
I swear.
Distaste pours from your lasting looks
and your third glass of whiskey
paid for by grinding hips and sweat and glitter.
Three am lights are the holy grail
guiding me back to our clown house.
I remember
when we were glorious
and cut out only by the full-colour hopes shared.
Reality knows no boundaries,
someone had to trade truth and dignity and magnificence
for the coins that keep a home.