Mismatched socks protecting her feet, a cup of tea resting on her palms,
And a mind more cluttered than her room, nestling in her head.
She would wear her slovenly hair on a bun, but lately, she keeps it short to feign change.
An upside-down horseshoe used to decorate her neck,
in tattoo language its a symbol of bad luck; she says she doesn't need luck.
But as of December, it's been replaced with a tiny cross,
Because she wants him close to her,
And she always wears it too tight,
She doesn't care if she runs out of breath
as long as he's pulling the noose.
Tired eyes, the color of coffee with no hint of milk,
Never with heels, mostly blue or red sneakers,
And in the nights of the new moon,
She's usually not in her room,
She's sneaking up on the roof,
With a CD, a pen, and a book,
Laying down by herself, she looks up, to the sky,
she keeps company to the lonely stars.
And her petite figure makes it hard for her,
there's not enough space,
she's a torrent of feelings,
she's a torrent of feelings, trapped in skin.