Broken-little-girl

we used to play russian roulette on dingy street corners, cigarettes hanging from soot-blackened lips and morphine running rampant through our drugged up systems. i remember how i was always shot. you ran away when i didn't die and left me to bleed out onto the cold concrete. but you don't understand- dolls and wallflowers are empty inside, and hearts constructed hastily with broken matchsticks don't beat true. it's just dull thumping in a hollow chest cavity. (and even the best dentists can't fill this one up.)