Nothing about her wasn’t beautiful,
but she had an attitude to throw back
hands and lines for help
over time. She swore
she’d go down fighting,
but she was really stepping on heads
and climbing back underneath.
Her looks, innocent, were replaced
with a graceless, aged tiredness;
and she hasn’t felt warm,
or wanted to, since you stopped breathing.
She wishes she could join you.

I saw her the other day, listless,
walking. She had fixed her hair,
and incorporated the black that
permanently sits below her eyes,
making a sultry, smokey vision.
But she left her lips alone.
Did you know she hasn’t
spoken since you bent her like
a twig and she refused to break?
Her edges are broken, uneven.
She aches to be touched,
but the pain is too great.

Once, you would have
serrated yourself to touch her soul;
but small scratches are too much
and not enough
to make her feel loved now.
It’s a complex-
one that she has, and a word
describing the difficulty in situations.
She said she’ll never be whole;
but, she’s said that, before, and there
are many more things
she’s willing to try these days.

The last time I saw her, she was
dancing. And I wept because it
was pouring rain and I knew
she was only outside so no-
one else could see her cry.

An old poem. You may have seen it, but I accidentally deleted it and have reposted it because it’s one of my favorites.


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