Black eyes. cocaine skin. She is five years old, and Im her mother- in so many ways.

I provide, she injects.

A funeral

I'm on my knees

He said: Belle, stop cutting my wrists

I said: Mine are already trashed

I tried to come back, tried to swim up for air but kept falling down. I thought about you day and night, but couldn't find the words. Went to LA and back, with less words for each air mile.

But I do find myself carrying on conversations with you even though I can't seem to write anything down. I tell you everything, but the words doesn't travel well.

But I know one thing. My wrists can't take anymore, and neither can his. So, can we pick up from where we left off? Can you love me again?