16.

Sitting, her arms are too heavy to lift and the music so blue. Never would she think her progeny imagine this moment. Her tears began to cry, oh the salty irony. Begging are her potential children of other men, looking behind at her morning the loss of this son-of-a-bitch who hurt her, hoping she gets over him. The Midwestern air is so fucking cold tonight and she despises it, the dryness too. So much Dopamine she is aware of her lips becoming slowly chapped.

I sit trillions, trillllions of "miles" away and watch her helpless and I feel the same. I would drink a case of her salty tears if I had to if it helped her. I'm in eternal debt. All her pain is mine and all mine hers, the drugs too, and the music. The blood her bones made. The tears her eyes made.