Shhh, Chloe \ her chronicle

Same old
pavement. Stilettos. Still
in Last Night’s dress.
Same old.
She breathes. Grasps tight.
The wad of tens they tossed her.
Honk, beep, zoom! Shhh.
It is a nice city, a metropolis
with a dark underbelly.
It is a nice city, flourishing
even in less conspicuous factories.
It is nice enough to promise her food (in fact, not much)
and remits her with fallacious embraces.
Babble, sniff, giggle. Shhh.
A pair of young lovers. A tune of heartbreak.
An emergent smirk.
How long will your love prevail (Christ that suffocates)?
Adolescence at its best.
Go back to school! But wait —
Same old
daily faces of the deceased.
Scribble, chatter, slash! Shhh.
That is not nostalgia, that is what drove her
to prefer broken bottles
and cigarette butts and tangled sheets
and post-its found in drawers
trumpeting the words “Call You”.
Tonight? Soon? Maybe? Never.
Sigh. Gasp. Huff. Puff.
Same old
This is the easy life she wanted,
don’t be sorry. Don’t cry, Chloe.


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