The foundation that she wears on her face weighs heavier than the foundations that built her up. She works so hard to primp, to prime, to gloss—Spraying the muskiest perfumes to hide that stench of regret. Heels high to keep herself above the rest..but her balance is nothing close to steady.  She makes..for empty conversation. Like dust on your shoulder, her words carry no weight. It’s easily brushed off. The coy smiles, the smirks, the switch in her walk. Short and quick, because that’s how she likes it. She learned early that nothing good lasts that long.

Strip her down to her skin and bones—and she’s nothing but hollowness.
The only substance she pursues—is that liquid courage served in a glass.
In constant pursuit of compliments and praise for self assurance…because truth is.. she’s not sure of herself.
Truth is..she can’t trust herself.