Junk was her thoughts and junk was the cells that lined the veins that ran up her arms. Junk was the sun and junk was the moon and junk was the buzzing of the flourescent lights right before they lit up. Junk shook her fingers and junk blurred her eyes and junk crawled over her arms and her legs and left little bird footprints behind.

Junk laid the streets that she walked in the early hours of the morning and junk was the faces of the drivers of the cars that stopped to talk to her. Junk was her lips around the words that she said and junk was the breath that went through them sweet-smelling and junk was her ears that listened to the junk that was talking. Junk was her legs and junk was climbing ladders and junk was walking on roofs and junk was the rainbow sheen of oil in a puddle.

Junk was the police and junk was the money that slid over the desks and junk was the desk and junk was the hands that were sliding the money. Junk was the faces on the bills and junk was the smell rising a python from the wrinkled and sweaty green paper and junk was the little white bags that came when the junk money was gone.

Junk was her parents and junk was the phone and junk was the secret resting under her shirt. Junk was the knowledge of the secret and junk was the gun that was taped to her thigh and junk was the wires in her teeth and junk was the lenses in her eyes. Junk was the angry open mouths and junk was the smell of blood and semen and junk was the violence that spilled them both. Junk was the taste in her mouth when the junk sun climbed into the haze and junk was the bugs that ran away from the lights when the junk walked into the apartment.

Junk was the quiet.