You can't expect her to know when to stop. They hand her the clear potion and she downs a shot for every boy who has given only to take away. She sells it like the worst kind, but she can’t stop, there's no point. Your soul can't regenerate: once a piece is lost it's lost forever, clinging to the feet of yet another, someone whom she thought would last longer than the moment.
She thinks of the 6ams; she rolls over, her head nestling against his back, and he stirs awake to find a stranger wanting more than he paid for in her drink. Walks out the front door, and she glimpses a shred of herself stuck onto the underside of his shoe; he drags her soul out to the sidewalk.
Him is a thousand hims, a collective; they once had names faces memories that made your spine chill, shiver with heart-trembling intimacy. But the more she remembered, the bigger a piece of her they tore away. It doesn't heal: the rip remains red and raw.
Shots make you numb. That's the only way. Here's one for the boy who explored the whispers of the bushes with her when she was fifteen. Who smoothed over every rise and filled every crevice. Who moved with her every breath.
Here's one for the boy who held her hand and said she had more beauty than she thought. She thought he was like the rest, who wanted her before they would look at her seriously, so she gave him what they wanted. He had run away in the night; she heard his sobs when he awoke and realised it was done. He still took a piece of her when he left - a bigger piece than the rest.
She’s on the floor now, the marble that feels like home. Shapes are bending over to take an amused look. Go on. Look. she wants you to join her. Show her you won't walk away.
Touch her. She wants it. Look at her eyes. Touch her, give her the electricity of hope. Stop refusing, she's scared, like you don't want even the least of her anymore. You're making her worried. You're making her cry.