The hotel bed is worn and torn from sleep
and her eyes are sunk into her head from
one too many needles probing her skin.
Her skin is bruised from the wrong hands touching
every inch of her with bad intentions.
Her hair is knotted from trying to pull
out every pure thing her soul can contain
and the holes she pokes cannot keep her sane.
The hotel bed cannot hold all the weight
of the world on her shoulders. She can feel
every seam and thread of the hotel bed.
The shower is steaming up the mirror.
Her hands wipe away the steam and I see,
through the fogged up glass, what I have become.