Look!
The spirit of madness has come out to
dance in the bones of a girl who thinks
she is weak, whose frame crumbles like dust and whose
eyes turn away from the burn of bright lights.

There!
The apologies that filled her veins have been
spilled, and cleaned again before anyone noticed.
There is still fire burning in her ribs,
and flecks of ash garnish her hair.

Watch her burn!
For she is a fool, as she dreams of men
with big hands and strong shoulders, as if
strength were measured in muscle and sinew,
not the volition to sacrifice for truth.

See her tremble!
Her prescription for loneliness is running out,
faster than the miles of open highway pass
on the evenings she decides that the street is safer
than the arms she once sought out at night.

She will fall!
The ghost of her inventions has been sent afar,
to seek the flesh of truth that hid in her skin, that
must be dug out and forced to confess its name
to her blocked ears.

Let her tire!
She will not hear the truth until it bites
like an old wound, when it’s too late to change
an old choice and too hard to change herself
unless she can let herself go.

Catch her quickly!
She will have to fall further than she flew,
but friends are often found amongst rubble
as butterflies are born on the ground.
We will see if she can find new wings.