Glass House

How many hits can she swallow;
the pipe,
the fist,
the pistol?

She's smoking
hot,
hurting,
lost,
rotting and beautiful,
too tough to fight it,
even when the trigger
is cocked.

Her mouth wide
open,
ready to finish
it all,
cutting
into another  
crystal.

There were bridges
she couldn't cross,
bridges she wanted to build,
others only to tear down;
nights wasted
on men's pretty pennies.

Voices
calling from curb corners
in their lemons and lamborghinis,
most with paper presidents,
some with rolls of quarters
not for paying,
or performing.

She knows how to take
care of herself,
those diamond rings
aren't just to make her smile.

If only words
could keep her
free
from falling
to Hell.