She had reached out her arm. I'd say it was trust if not for the truth. She wasn't thinking of what was happening. Only that it would be done unto her. Where all the other interactions, attempts at love, attempts to piece an image came to nothing to her.

And it was not good. She collapsed to the shiny wood floor off the bed of slumber, He was gone from the room. She was alone and slumped like the fallen ragdoll never to move again. She'd be moved. Removed.

There she was and acceptable to her. Acceptable to be strapped and a vein being tracked held only sickness to her. But she was blue and oh how I know she would have loved to have lived in that moment to witness her accomplishment. Very natural and real was everything. The acidic vomit eating the finish off the floor, running up and down her slack face.

She'd perhaps have preferred a pretty white dress to the tee and sweats cause there'd be knocking on doors and neighbors (un)wanted, and he, HE would return leaving flames on the stove.

And such abuse she would now take. Crude efforts to reverse her increasing cyanosis ensued. From beating and rolling and dragging stripped of clothes into a bathtub thrown. It was a frenzied series of acts and delays turned to anger and rapidly growing fear.

She was dying and she didn't even have to pull the trigger. Didn't have to have known the outcome.

Today she called him to check and see how he was doing. She had slept next to him some cozy nights ago. She's barefooted in silk pants with a snazzy new hairdo thinking somehow that her time is not up. I see her pearly whites more and more as time goes by. She is regaining her former sparkle. It has not been an easy road, but she's here and she's driving, pearly whites.