There are a thousand vacant hotel room hearts waiting for you, with your dark eyes and hissing tongue. Sidle up to them like the snake to Eve and pretend you believe their lies of solidarity. Sit by the fire dressed for dinner, your bow tie coming down at either end, and soon the walls will crumble like monuments in your arms; consume the dust.
After jobs or interveiws she would watch Supernatural, feeling somewhat close to the Winchesters. Never having a real home. Never having real parents. Never having a real anchor. She envied them as well. They had each other, Bobby, someone. Anyone would be better than no one.