she drinks like a fish
and tastes like a cigarette at the bottom of an ashtray
and the ink of her tatoos
begins to bleed and run and fade
she spends most everynight
with a beer and a smoke at the top of king's hill
and would rather sleep next to a stranger
than to spend a night alone

she's running to the darkness
she's running from herself
she lives out of one room
with a bed and not much else
and all of the big ideas and
her hopes and her dreams
are drowned in another pint of self-esteem

she wakes up at noon
and tries to recall a little of last night
with random bruises on her legs
and a pounding in her head
with all the strength she can conjure up
she stumbles, still drunk, into the shower
just to get herself prepared to do it all again tonight