She.

She wakes in the morning but mostly at night and stares at the sky while the moon shines it’s reflection in her eyes. She’s young and maybe even pretty and with her whole life ahead of her or maybe it’s already behind her. She stretches out her body, which she is never happy with and she cracks her neck and back as she drags her legs to the side and just sits.

She sits for more than while staring at the spaces between. She sits and thinks and wonders and sits and thinks and plunders. She cracks her knuckles and soon she’ll get up. Runs a hand through her unwashed hair and wonders what her life would be like if she were a slut.

Maybe she’d be happier. Maybe she’d be dead. Maybe she would wake up with someone she’d like to see in her bed. She looks down at the carpet with lint and dust everywhere, she’ll heave and sigh and wish she was made up of only air.

She vacuums once a year and yesterday was the day, and still it made no difference she couldn’t whisk her fears away. They’re they are beneath her feet staring in the silence. She won’t look down but won’t look up and looking straight is her only compliance.

She tip toes around, flips the handle to the door stands outside for a few minutes and lets the wind wrap around her soul. She can’t quite feel the cold but she’s never quite that warm and when she wants to cry she just turns into foam.

Finally she’ll leave the space that haunts her everyday, the remnants of herself that she finds always cake the pain. She’ll wander to another place and make her way inside, rummage through the refrigerator but in the end, she’ll walk on by.

She’ll twist and turn and shimmy around this new place that she found until she blinks and recognizes all the familiarity around. She walks down the hall and makes a left into the forbidden room, she spies a scale and stands on it and lets her life weigh in the gloom.