They whisper to her quietly.
She holds imagery of fantasy silently.
Sped up images of broken mornings, fruitful afternoons, yellow moons.
She can't stand the repetition.
Perspective from another, she can't handle the critiquing, she'll lay awake thinking.
He doesn't understand, she doesn't care, despair is easier for her heart to digest.
She won't rest until she finds the most painful route to take.
In drought, sleet, or snow, she'll stay frozen and content, in her ice, crystallized castle of The Spent.
She can't look at herself without conceiving thoughts of the past.
Can she ever fathom something that is destined to last?
She'll surpass all evidence of something functional, and go to bed with the destructive.
Constructive she's not, productive she can't, reluctant she'll allow.
She will disavow all you think she is, deny all facts of the factual.
Revoke the right to view what festers in her skull.
Dull and restless, she marks up the mirrors, scratches up the window frames, she won't allow the meaningless to die in vain.
She defines all that's useless.
Making a name for herself in invisible ink, no one will recall a signature .
She disapproves all of what Life offers her to gain.
Sitting in a circle of ashes, the lashes of another, she empathizes with the current pain of the hour.
If you're not careful, she'll devour you next.
Simplistic and relaxed are the techniques.
You won't even know what she's thinking of sneaking into your plethora of problems.
A broken heart there, a sense of direction lost there.
Bestowed upon you is an opium, an escape.
Take it before it's too late, she'll catch up to you eventually.