Damaged isn’t the right word, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind.
She’s the girl at the bar who lets others push through her, she’s decided she’s not worthy of attention first.
That’s why she sleeps with married men and doesn’t mind being the last resort when all your friends bailed on a night out.
So I’ll sit with her as she waits for the train and give her cigarettes and gently graze her thigh.
She believes she’s easily replaced but if you know anyone with eyes as sad as hers than that’s enough proof that this world is absolute shit.
When I first met her, reading alone in some underrated coffeehouse in an area of town you don’t want to spend too much time in, I could have sworn she was well into her twenties.
She’s just a kid who grew up too fast.
Perhaps she could have been beautiful if this world hadn’t have been so cold. Now she spends her days only half alive and he nights so hazed with drugs and drinks and men so strange she won’t have many left.
So she sits and reads novels about lives crueler than her own, smokes mint cigarettes so death can taste a little sweeter, and will pretend like she’s something special.