She is a sky of shards of everything. She is a piece of clockwork, ticking away the (star)dust of her eye shadow, and everything else she hides behind. She is a crumb of all the food she didn't eat, and a bead of all the sweat from all the sex. And just a bit of the bones she breaks every damn day.
Her hair strands are sharp and cutting like the needles from syringes and the edges of the words she wishes were spoken to her – sweet and kind and gentle words they are, but cruel in absence and longing. When she runs her hand through her hair, there's a chaos of new scratches on her fingerprints.
Who is she, now, then?
She sways to a song that thuds like thunder, wearing smoke like a second skin, like an atmosphere of cigarettes and no-hard-feelings. She is like Jupiter: great, grand, and made of gas. Just spinning and pretending to be solid.