It rains.It’s raining once again.She’s never been bad,but she never made good.She’s waiting for life to catch up,and tell her it loves her. Nothing changes,no matter how hard she wishes,and how long she waits,but she’s dreaming that maybe it could,her eyes,fluttering,when sleeping,when waking,and it’s primitive,disassociative. She’s not sure there’s anymore.She has a gun,with tomorrow scratched…