Edits by anonymous temporarily disabled.
Portrait of Her
From Wikipen
She sits at the table, alone
Cutting her bread with a plastic knife—
She gave away all the metal ones
After finding a blade beneath her mattress
Having almost forgotten intending to slice her wrists.
She has one-sided conversations with Oprah
Only half-knowing the screen cannot hear her
Collects tiny teasets and dolls, wizards and wands,
Furnishing the world of illusion she's built for herself
As a shelter from the cold flood of reality, letting just enough trickle in
To reassure her of her existence. Sometimes she doubts it—
When the voices inside are too strong, their messages too painful,
Their questions answerless, their answers excruciating
She casts the runestones, hoping they'll tell her
Of a better future than she sees for herself.
She gets her sanity by prescription
And her courage by nature, with unlimited refills
Needing both just to face another moment,
Another day, another struggle—one more pebble on a worn and crumbling road.
Sometimes, all that keeps her afloat
Is taking on the weight of others' burdens...
So that no one ever has to be like her, she says,
Not realizing no one else ever could be.
