(no subject)
i sit at the bus stop iwith my hands between my knees. the wet is a painfully peculiar texture that polishes my bare calves. its dawn and the fog craves my mouth to hold a cigarette. i light it and watch the smoke curl into the air, mimicing the path i imagine my soul leaks into, escaping from holes pricked by my nails only (althgouh sometimes by consquence of others.) my eyelashes twitch at the feeling of something to my right. slighted vision paints a picture of a little girl crounched at a daisy. with hair three times her weight her touch grazes the pedals, shaking with wonder laced lightly with fear. "is she really for me" her smirk reads. an inch of space between the heel of her foot and the red platent leather of her mothers pumps. she wipes her eyes and anchors herself with a lightpost slippery with dawn's sweat. she raises and stands pigeon-toed, contemplating. she turns her back in an exaggerated statement that forces her mustard yellow skirt to overexaggerate her spin. then she steps, stops, turns back, picks up the daisy and runs away. shiny crimson left in a puddle.