Sixteen Going on Zero

Monday


I watched her from the corners of my pleading eyes.
She was sixteen going on zero.
She inhaled every puff of black smoke
like a child breathing in the fresh winter air
in hopes of making snow angels in the morning.
Charred and broken, she sat silently beneath the stars,
waiting for the high to replace
memories of waiting for a single day of happiness.
And as she breathed in her toxic artificial joy,
   she lost her mind.


Tuesday


I watched her from the corner of my window sill.
She accepted the corrupted green paper on the shadowed side walk
and squeezed it between equally corrupted finger tips,
stuffing it in her mini skirt like the automatic machines
that stuff white cotton into an empty teddy bear.
Black fishnets, high heels, and a broken heart
            disappeared
      into a stranger's arms.
She looked into his eyes, begging to forget
about memories of waiting for the day her prince charming would come.
And as he used her up,
   she lost her innocence.


Wednesday


I watched her from the corner of the coffee shop.
She sped down an open road on four thick whirling wheels,
passing life by at 90 miles per hour.
In a stoned daze,  she finally forgot about
memories of waiting for a day that would never come.
All that was left of her crashed
into the single tree and shattered into a million pieces,
like an antique mirror broken on the floor of the attic,
never to be fixed, never to be replaced.
And in a final blur of metal, flashing lights, and another starry night full of empty wishes,
   she lost  her hope.
   She lost her life.