She lugs the day
on two sloped shoulders
it is her cross to burden.
At night she unties herself,
loosening her limbs
so she can hug her knees.
When eyes are dry
she unpicks the stitches
that hold her together
and a exhales a months
staleness
Sleep avoids her
as though it she who
blackens the dream.
Ever heard hopelessness
communicate at 3am?
it is the pounding of a pillow
with a crucifix
She dances with shadows
to remind herself
to breathe
and pours out tea
to feel it die cold.
When she bleeds
it is not the flushing
of one's gift
but the careless
drinking of wine.
An interesting mysterious write.