To The Skies Poem by Rachel Henley

She swallow's the nicotine with iron gills,
wrapping the bolt of lighting around her finger,
Welsh rain does much to soothe the pain.

It's friday night and the busses are gone,
a broken nine inch heel and a dress short,
short for attention, she short on attention.

The cheap bottle of vodka, a lane and a streetlight.
A hush of cold and bitter wind with the gargle of passers-by.
Courtney, hold your hands up to the sky!

Wipe all the graffiti off your arms,
erase the pain that rests beneath your eyes,
find love within yourself, not anyone else.
Surrender yourself only, to the skies.