Pointing Fingers.

She burns

her wrists with menthols; she says

it's too much effort to cut

them. Besides, it's

more fun. Her parents become

suspicious with her frequent visits to the city.  She rolls

her shallow and cold eyes and tells

them that her life is

none of their business and drives

away. 

She blames them.

She finds

what she can and puts

it in a line situated on the cover of her Aladdin dvd case; she grabs

a pen cap on the nightstand, the same pen from when she used

to write...from when she was

inspired. 

She blames him.

Her friend sits

on the bed, desperate to help

her; helpless in helping her.

She knows what happened. She recognizes

her cold stare.  She knows

why the pen that previously streamed

genius works is now just a tool to get

high and an instrument to

forget.

She blames herself.

Those moments mean

more to her than the first snow of winter.

For those few fleeting

minutes, disappearing

more hastily than ever, nothing else matters

to her.  She does not seem

to remember

what happened.  She does not

care. 

She does not blame anyone.