Look at her; shes a porcelain doll with never-ending milk legs all stapled to the bed, thirteen years young with forty-eight years suffocating her figure. Hes right up to her baby lips, offering cigarette breath and grinding his stubble on her cheeks, it reminds her of gravel and she closes her eyelids as it falls across her neck, inhaling the cloud of dust.
The curtains are draped across the sky, dried blood red casting shadows she cant tell the ends of. A dim flicker of a light and maybe a filter of moonshine illuminate the crevasses of his eyelids, forehead and awry mouth. His skin tastes of sweat and earth.
She was with her father in the afternoon, sharing his eyes and wearing the yellow dress he bought her. He was a quaint man who studied birds and told her she looked like a canary; he bought a voluminous cage (from the very same balding man he sold her to) and kept her in there at nighttime.
And now, three oh clock in the morn, the balding man has her; hes