It’s ten p.m. do you know where your child is? Probably out finding brand new ways to hate herself.
It's eleven p.m. do you know what happens in the red light? She undresses slowly, and he waits for the click of the American styled shutter. The metallic scream of the lens closing in on itself, and the white hot heat of overexposure.
Twelve a.m. and she’s spitting tears and crying saliva in front of a wall as white and as blank as her filthy mind in some studio he never bothered to mention the address of. “Where does the time go?” you wonder quietly to yourself and its one a.m. now and her skin lies in a figurative pile adjacent to a more literal one providing a temporary shelter for her designer clothes. Polaroid film scattered on the floor, developing slowly, shedding light on images of an empty guilt slithering between newly exposed bones and tendons.
And now it’s two a.m. and she’s putting her clothes back on again, shedding in reverse, leaving her skin in its metaphorical pile beside her bare feet. She takes her money and leaves the studio without saying goodbye to the crew. And you sit at home and you knit and you do crossword puzzles.
It's three a.m. do you know where your child is? Probably wandering the streets now that the buses have stopped running their meanderingly finite course. She breathes shallow in the quiet cold, and she breaks the rules. Gets in cars with strangers. Strangers with sweets. strangers with money. Strangers with temporary answers to infinite questions.
It's four a.m. do you know where your child is? Dead? Or forgotten?
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