Scars traced up and down the burnt flesh that clung to her flaccid sides. The sickly composition of the girl that gasped on the pavement and stuck to brick wall like a mosquito digging into flesh and feasting on life. Just one more drop, just one more, just one. The atonements of taste and touch, her battery acid veins. Weeks of peeling off the layers, one by one, uncovering a new kind of drug that itched and scraped against her organs, forcing its way down and infiltrating her senses until the skin was confetti that flew over her head, splattered blood-paint across her cheeks and coloured the pavement. Her eyelids fluttered at every premonition, a scream caught in her throat and died at her tongue, the tastebuds salted with ash and charcoal. A backdrop lit her fears from behind and illuminated her weaknesses. The asphalt met with her knees in a crash of white bone and broken pavement. A twisting dandelion dusted her flesh a violent yellow. Her hands held the world in a locked grip as her hopes were dashed by darkening shadows and painful thoughts. Oncoming headlights, one broken and fading, reflected in a teardrop that careened down the side of her face, briefly meeting with her earlobe, before tracing across her chin and dropping, dropping, crashing. A crushed bottle in her hands. Just one more drop, just one more, just one.