she was nothing more than filler... for time needing to be passed and as her eyes filled with misery she knew the truth was close. behind the stained curtain lies rusted nails, and empty bottles of sin. deceit like a florentine perfume sweet, yet so strong on the wrists holding gentle devious chins in the air so we can see... your not me. like sand refusing to go to sea or the memories afraid to leave... she was stubbornly waiting for acknowledgement from the stoney faced electric woman in the mirror. four hours the bathtub overfull. four hours the phone unanswered. four hours the world was not hers. sinking beneath cool water wandering for home. the pool around her became salty. and she pleaded for salvation as the minutes pounded understanding into her corse veins. three...two...one... wake up your only dreaming your reading