Untitled

She sat there; black mascara stained her cheek bones.
She kept her back turned to the room full of demons that chased after her,
At least what was left of her.
She pressed her smooth calloused fingers to her temples,
"This is all a dream," she whispered,
While her thin, lifeless body rocked back and forth.
Her eyes glassed over at the sound of creaking floorboards
Seeping in from under the doorway.
She scratched at her legs until they were raw,
Pleading for the forgiveness she searched for in every sip of her bottle; every hit of every drug.
Her heart raced as she tapped the crease of her arm with her middle and index fingers.
She fumbled beside herself for her syringe;
Her daily escape inside, catching the light to almost look golden.
It was the cure to keep the demons at bay.
She lusted for the vein that would send the explosive rush through her system.
Then she found it,
Pushing the needle through her soft skin.
She pushes down, then pulls up and pushes down again,
Continuing this until the syringe was full of only her sweet, young blood,
Pushing down one last time.
She slowly lifted her fragile body,
Holding onto anything steady.
She could feel the warmth creeping into her veins, overpowering her body.
She carefully opened the heavy oak door,
And crept down the stretching hallway,
Making her way to the back porch.
She plopped down in the corner,
Gently tracing the veins along her forearm.
She closed her eyes and abandoned her body in that corner,
While her soul slipped through the flesh to be free.
And now there's this look in her eyes,
Like black holes in the sky. 
She rests her head on the rough, damp wood;
Reaching for a hand to save her,
But there is no hand to grab,
No one is going to save her.
She must do this alone..