She's only 14 and yeah. what can you tell her to improve.

It’s 7.30 at night and above the silver diamonds spread out on the black velvet; looking down on you. A puff of white escapes your lips as the cold clings to the bare skin your tattered shirt doesn’t cover. The homeless man by the bin—where scraps of fruit and vegetable peelings, chewed gum and various s*** have been thrown into—kindly asks you to, please, join him. And as you do, you slot a cigarette between an index and middle finger.

The man who smells like puke from drinking too much offers rum. You chug it down like it’s the only thing worth entering in your system besides fags and $65.00 tablets that guarantee bliss. Since that teal-coloured wooden door was slammed in front of your face in your cluttered apartment where promises were exchanged (where, really, everything happened), nothing seemed more beautiful than feeling and drinking pain. You look up and a star twinkles and whispers, “Young boy, you’ve lost your sparkle.”

Next morning, a Saturday, you sit on your couch watching the series of movements on the screen: shirtless with unbuttoned jeans. The voices coming from the television just blur around your head because you don’t give a f*** about the tragedies of the world—just your own. You f****** another $30 whore last night: on the fragile kitchen table, on the couch that has its foam sticking out, in the white-and-blue tiled bathroom, everywhere.
Your obese next door neighbour with the yellow picket fence, not white, came by at 3 o’clock in the morning when you were at your peak of ecstasy, just to tell you to, “Shut the hell up.” You stood there, no clothes, everything was there for Rob to see, and said, “Just because you can’t get one of these,” and turned to slobber on the auburn-haired beauty’s lips while shutting the door.

At about 6.43 am, as you kiss the strumpet from last night goodbye, pink, orange and yellow clouds stretch their way around the fairy-floss blue sky. But this means nothing to you. You know no colours, you know no black and white. You know nothing.

As the weather report is being broadcasted, you become irked and switch off the noise. The apartment with peeling ivory wallpaper, the clothes scattered around the varnished wooden floor, the beer bottles from last night on the coffee table, they envelop you, like a mother’s caress. And profound sadness streams with the blood in your veins.

On the same couch you’re sitting on, this was where chapped lips first brushed yours—where you ripped off each other’s white shirts. When your skin became one, not a space was left between your flesh—every curve of hers, you fit in perfectly. Every rhythm, every beat; both of you didn’t lose your pace.

That was before. If only she didn’t close the door and never left you. If only that, then the drugged driver of the blue pick-up wouldn’t have crushed her bones into tiny pieces.

If only, you stopped her or begged her even to just stay. Wasn’t she your whole world?