A tattooed anchor entwined in the symbol for infinity sits on her hip bone, which juts out like a cliff over her great barrier reef.

Her jeans ride low like the bikers she serves workin’ the graveyard shift, you could say she’s the grim reaper.

They call her “honey” and “baby” and “sweetheart”, her nametag reads “use me” “drink me” “love me cause I sure love you!” “buy me a shot as long as you’re paying”

She is the reason wives follow their husbands to sports bars, the name on a drunk mans tattoo, section “B” in the divorce papers.

She is drugstore perfume and cigarette smoke.

She is a pink lace thong peeking out of ripped jeans.

She is the number written drunkenly on a bathroom stall.

She is Jack Daniel’s daughter, southern comfort lullabies.

She is a trailer park in Virginia, the angry ex boyfriend, the disconnected phone cord, the bank notices.

She is purple bruises and black mini skirt.

She...called her mother last night.

Wired her money, asked about the hospital, and the doctor, and the voices.

She quit smoking...again.

She cursed at a stop light, cried at a funeral just to remind herself she was still breathing.

She remembers the days she used to get high.

When she was a human pin cushion, her own voodoo doll.

At times she was a cutting board a smokehouse a cadaver.

Telling men they couldn’t have her.

They all looked like her father.

She is a half broke horse on her grandpa’s ranch, dirty money, prison visits, back alley abortion, spoiled milk, ashtray, a butterfly caught in the rain.