she knows not where she goes

and bleeds dreams

as if she had too many

sex is an offering from god

as she lies entrenched

caught by a memory in deceit

dancing upon a bubble

of self destruction- spiraling, grasping,

throwing herself as lead

there is no holding her

as she lives on her sleeve

or at most with the touch of another across her skin

searching the surface

for some foothold to emotion

that will not approach affection

there is no holding her

she is a dream that bleeds,

that cannot see the false boundaries

of her emptiness

as a child, she cries

"find me... if nothing more1"

1. The Smiths, "Suffer Little Children"