pixie

she drinks like a fish

and tastes like a cigarette at the bottom of an ashtray

and the ink of her tatoos

begins to bleed and run and fade

she spends most everynight

with a beer and a smoke at the top of king's hill

and would rather sleep next to a stranger

than to spend a night alone

she's running to the darkness

she's running from herself

she lives out of one room

with a bed and not much else

and all of the big ideas and

her hopes and her dreams

are drowned in another pint of self-esteem

she wakes up at noon

and tries to recall a little of last night

with random bruises on her legs

and a pounding in her head

with all the strength she can conjure up

she stumbles, still drunk, into the shower

just to get herself prepared to do it all again tonight