She stands beneath the neons
Bare skin wretched in the heatless light
The oldest of labors; eons
Of trampled souls, too wounded to fight

Back against the grabbing hands of freaks
Until self-deprecation is her cradle
And every word she speaks
Is not a mirror. She is unable

To embrace a reflection of her young heart on a shelf.
Now she must use her own saliva and blood as her mortar.
Now she must be looked at - used - though she is unsure how to use herself.
She is a vending machine filled with saccharine sweets, but out of order.

She stands in her abhorrent spotlight wishing only
To be alone; to cease to be lonely