Viola Coke

The pinch of glass to her lips -
how kind the bite.

It made no sense but as the
voice echoed away she didn't
bother.

There were prettier restaurants
but this empty, abandoned one
tattooed with bloodshed and
nails made the waste feel better.

Her dress is dirty and "borrowed"
from the safehouse. Her feet
tapped on the moldy floor; she
walked slowly, they
rose in limp columns praying
to find warmth.

Her smile never ceased as the
burned fingers pryed at the edges of
her mouth.

The walls rumbled and laughed
deeply. As each slab crumbled
down atop her she noted the
promise of their enclosure -
safety, an end.

Her lids drooped and the pipes
spun water across the light.
The electrical wires hummed and
spit what she felt but could never
say.

Neither the sun, moon, stars, or
humanity disrupted her.