Do not drink the water

I found sanctuary beneath the sheets of a soiled bed, damp with sweat and shame.
Tied my broken hands together with ribbon, and begged myself to puppet my fingers into something less than atrophy to spindel such words on a coarse piece of lust.
As I pick up the shatter remains of what I once considered my body,
climbing out of your bed, tears smearing my false rosed cheeks..
Fake signs of good health.
Scrambling to gather my things, wishing home wasn't a car ride away.
Wondering if I called someone, who would listen?
Who would I possibly tell?
Instead I wipe my eyes, smile at myself in the mirror.
Straighten my hair.
And walk out your door.

But inside, I die.