1:00 am, December 6

I cleanse the wounds and open sores. She picks a fight from out the norm, crocodile tears form at abundant. Her dreams become reality I suffer from her make-believe. I sip a cup of warm salt water; the needle draws up to the line with red. Blue bags are what her demons are fed. She's tired of the life she lives, she holds a stem of righteousness. My memory box is painted black. it's filled with things of this and that. I deleted pictures inside my phone, inside my heart, you no longer have a home.