In a stark white hotel room, she breaks her own heart.
A cigarette in hand and smoke curling from her lips, she is folded up on the window sill watching the city dissolve into artificial darkness.
There is a red wine stain on the sheets and a bathtub full of cold water.
The tv is on, muted, in the background.
Ambivalence is rampant,
she scrawls across the hotel stationary, flicking ash onto the floor.
Chivalry is dead and I willingly sit in the crossfire.
She wakes in the morning to sunlight stabbing at her skin,
her heart still aches,
her head is throbbing
and her bed is still empty.
God this hurts.
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