gos·sa·mer

2:10 am.

She hushes the smoke out of her semi-opened lips, together with a long mournful sigh. Burnt tobacco scent clingers her body for she has been illiterately lighting cigarettes with hopes that they could aviate every nuisance and pain she feels and it'll all be nothing but grey. Her throat dry, from the words she's been choking up to say. The rain pours and she listens. Her heart engages in confusion. People teases her and they don't even know it. What cannot be disputed is, how a girl who laughs during the day is so forlorn when all is shut, dark and quiet? It isn't what she wants. But what she is. She knows by heart that the cat and mouse chase is not going to have a pretty end. A heart can only hold a lie for so long. But it isn't what she wants. It's what she is. Her cigarette sits in between her fingers, half smoked. She lets it there, watching the remaining lit. Her other hand runs through the shirt clung to her body, searching for that feel that once warmed her spine. It's gone, she knew. And then she decides, nevermore. Next time it will be people pleasing her. As she decides, tonight, pillowed by the crease of her arm, it is time to sleep again.