Her fingers smell like cigarettes
she's waiting for the day to end
she's waiting for the inky black of sleep
She's fortunate, yet full of fear
she's stacking up the wasted days
to make a wasted year
Somehow still hoping
with that numb and heavy heart
hoping something good is almost here
She hides away inside her head
feeding demons who promise
they'll keep the world away
But that sense of safety never stays
instead she's given lonely days
and an ever-shrinking window for change
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