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Maybe I've been going about this all wrong. Not really wrong, but it has to be this way sometimes.
She gave her sandals made of blood, but they didn't fit and after a while she went to the doctor but he just told her to stop smoking and that made her laugh and exhale painfully towards the window. Her hair was blonde and restless and her figure was slim but comfortable, crooked smile that puts some people on edge and pushes others over it. She would go home to an empty apartment with no pets for a change and she would sit in her living room with the tv off not watching. She had an old green overstuffed chair and she didn't know where she got it from and it was burned all over and covered with old stains, late night grape juice secrets. And she didn't even really like her house except for the huge window that let in the light and rain and looked over vast expanses of nothing and in the morning she could look out and everything was exactly like how she felt inside and it twisted not in a bad way, not in a good way. She liked the bathroom because it had a small, red, carpet and she would lock the door and turn on the vent and listen to the sounds of air and through the wall arguments as she lay on the carpet and watched the mirror. It was safe, she couldn't see her reflection. She liked how the shower head was just the right height and the pressure was strong without stinging and the drain didn't clog easily. There was always enough hot water and sometimes she would stand in there for hours craning her head to smoke a damp cigarette and wait for the water to get cold. Her kitchen was a stranger and she never felt comfortable in there especially in the middle of the night which is when she usually ate. The refrigerator was too cold and the microwave made too much noise and the toaster was always always always burning her bread and ruining her midnight breakfast. At times when she was not herself she would sit on the not too dirty linoleum floor with her back against the worn wood cabinet doors and rock slowly. The walls everywhere were brick and she never really thought of covering them and occasionally she had plants but mostly they died. Her bedroom was small and not private. There was just enough space for a bed and dresser, there were no closets. The bed was not too big, but comfortable and the blankets were multicolored and smelled like sweat and smoke. One night she set a small fire on her bed because she wanted to know what it was like to sleep next to something so unpredictably alive but it got out of control and the landlord put it out cursing loudly and she lied and told him she fell asleep smoking. Now the smoke detector doesn't have any batteries and there's a charred hole like a heart in the middle of the bed that she sinks into when she falls asleep. She has other stories to tell. You just have to listen.
She gave her sandals made of blood, but they didn't fit and after a while she went to the doctor but he just told her to stop smoking and that made her laugh and exhale painfully towards the window. Her hair was blonde and restless and her figure was slim but comfortable, crooked smile that puts some people on edge and pushes others over it. She would go home to an empty apartment with no pets for a change and she would sit in her living room with the tv off not watching. She had an old green overstuffed chair and she didn't know where she got it from and it was burned all over and covered with old stains, late night grape juice secrets. And she didn't even really like her house except for the huge window that let in the light and rain and looked over vast expanses of nothing and in the morning she could look out and everything was exactly like how she felt inside and it twisted not in a bad way, not in a good way. She liked the bathroom because it had a small, red, carpet and she would lock the door and turn on the vent and listen to the sounds of air and through the wall arguments as she lay on the carpet and watched the mirror. It was safe, she couldn't see her reflection. She liked how the shower head was just the right height and the pressure was strong without stinging and the drain didn't clog easily. There was always enough hot water and sometimes she would stand in there for hours craning her head to smoke a damp cigarette and wait for the water to get cold. Her kitchen was a stranger and she never felt comfortable in there especially in the middle of the night which is when she usually ate. The refrigerator was too cold and the microwave made too much noise and the toaster was always always always burning her bread and ruining her midnight breakfast. At times when she was not herself she would sit on the not too dirty linoleum floor with her back against the worn wood cabinet doors and rock slowly. The walls everywhere were brick and she never really thought of covering them and occasionally she had plants but mostly they died. Her bedroom was small and not private. There was just enough space for a bed and dresser, there were no closets. The bed was not too big, but comfortable and the blankets were multicolored and smelled like sweat and smoke. One night she set a small fire on her bed because she wanted to know what it was like to sleep next to something so unpredictably alive but it got out of control and the landlord put it out cursing loudly and she lied and told him she fell asleep smoking. Now the smoke detector doesn't have any batteries and there's a charred hole like a heart in the middle of the bed that she sinks into when she falls asleep. She has other stories to tell. You just have to listen.