#7

“now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds”

this is her tale of sorrow and disappointment.
this is her story, about how she became what, today, she is. and what she wishes she could present herself to be, but cannot be.
a repeating cautionary tale of how to always be alone, to be repeated in echoes throughout infinity.

it’s short and it’s raw, but she is a five feet five short pack of raw words, resentment and chafed knuckles.

she is what she has to be. not moody, and neither ruthless. just a being.

no songs really appeal to her. apathy has become her as she has become apathy, ruler of gray thoughts, of bland & blank faces and of heads as cloudy as the dark skies above the skyscrapers. misty are the clouds that roam her spirit and something she is: not really sad, indeed, but just chronically hurt.

she is what she was taught to be. a wolf that had to become in order to survive. she is a ghost among the clear lakes and green pines, she roams and roams purposeless as she cannot seem to be able to shake off, to hide the melancholy that is rooted in her very being, threaded through the fabric of the alveoli in her drowned lungs.

she has all these feelings that have made her body their home, even though her own mind is homeless… and lately, it is worse. she seems devoid of light and life in her eyes. she has been haunted by the despair that has populated her mind ever since she had to watch him leave the room,

(watched, like a movie, as he put on his boots slowly, sat by the end of bed, passed his ragged shirt over his head, ran his fingers through the greasy messy bed-hair, pocketed his pack of cigarettes and the motel matches, tossed in slow-motion his jacket over his shoulders
[he forgot his socks by the dresser]
and left, a careless shrug and the distant sound of the car’s engine going further away, in the background, only the cloud of sand rising, rustling in the pavement… really, the soundtrack of her life)

as she pretended to sleep through half-hooded, watery eyes.

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