Wild hearts don't get broken.

Perked up on Ecstasy, the other day she snorted happiness
from a Motel 8 bathroom, from his mouth,
stale with alcohol and two-day-old bread and acrid vomit.

The city knows no limits.
Her heart keeps on giving some synthetic kind of love.
The lights need to stop.
She needs to stop.
The lies keep on flushing through her veins.
"I belong to the wild" tattooed on her ribs in violet ink.

Honestly though? She doesn't belong to anyone.
Not to the drugs or the chipped teeth he owns
or the smug smile she receives from the dealer
when she reassures him tenfold that she
"took care of" the morning sickness...
but she's always nauseous these days.

Dignity is everything. Dignity is nothing.
Self-respect spoon fed, boiled, burned to the bottom.

San Francisco. Los Angeles. Vegas. New York.

The names never mattered.
The men kept piling up around her, massacres of the past.
They died for nothing.
They lived for what they thought was everything.

She, constantly accused of selling a wicked heart, wielded metal.

Nothing could ruin her now. Nothing could set her heart aflame.

The broken girl who used to catch dreams at gentlemen clubs
and skater parks and in rebounds and vigorous break-up
sex is now stuck in an undisclosed time.

She holds no gender. She holds no age.

She is too wild to be controlled...

-
Written while listening to "Wicked Games" by: The Weeknd