Passive aggressive and sinking into the folds of obscurity, her conscience is in dire need of saving. her crickets no longer chirp, not even echoing in the emptiness of her stomach, which left itself in the toilet bowl at three in the morning. priorities and promises trail behind her in confusion and tangles that recall the way her hair looked the dawn she woke up on an unfamiliar shoulder. she wonders whatever happened to the lessons she learned when a thumb in her mouth was the epitome of comfort, a pat on the head better than any late night kiss. but mud pies no longer taste as good as deceit and trickery, and innocence becomes lost in between drinks and the sheets. weaving a web of which she cannot escape, she's losing integrity faster than blood, her spindly legs neatly trampling any hope of her own survival. unaware and unprotected, she continues her elaborate mastery of the loom, seducing and fleeing before the moon could even whisper goodbye to the horizon line. alone except for a strangers touch, the birds keep her company when even that's not enough. but their chirping cannot replace that of the crickets, who abandoned her with the first love and first sign of morning. she searches desperately for the comfort of their whispering in her ear and the boy whom she lost so long ago, but the weak sunlight only brings tears to her eyes. she is imprisoned in the dark, feeling for her love between strange men's hips and ears. they hide in shadows, while she is unaware that her conscience and heart hide in the sun, the one thing she cannot look in the eye.
