The words sit heavy on her tongue,
she has held them in too long,
it is too late to speak,
if she does it will come out rotten,
the fruit will be pasted,
she cannot speak like this,
it is not her right any longer,
she does not care if they want her to,
it is not okay to say it is not okay,
she does not believe in hope,
it pools in her throat like soured milk,
she feels the symptoms of a cold,
the reddened eyes,
the congested smile,
the curled in bed,
the stomach ache,
the heart that beats too much,
the running legs that do not run,
the eyes that can't seem to close,
the fingers that,
tap,
skip,
hop,
dance,
always moving,
on the move,
she needs to move,
she has to run,
it has been too long.
She thinks that no one could believe her,
for it is not true,
not really,
it can't be,
it is only her feeling this way,
she must be wrong,
it is the only answer.
She cannot seem to say anything beautiful,
all she can do is,
close her eyes,
shut her mouth tight,
curl her arms like
reaching embraces
hotly pooled down her throat
a blush upon her
mottled eyes
and she is
sparkling
heavenly
curled into a
dance that
she cannot control
limbs
jabbing out like
sparking
fireworks
sparkling like
glittered
eyelashes upon
evening lakes
sunset bleeding against
her
bleeding reflection
she is
she is
silent.
The words don't come out right.
They come out stuttered and garbled,
she does not think they would listen anyway,
she cannot seem to understand,
she cannot accept,
the moon is not
forgiving of her
plight
she stares
beseeching
to its
empty
gaze and
it does not
reply
to the
whispered
words
prayers
pleadings that
choke her
stick upon her throat
and
she
cannot
breathe
her lungs fail her once more
it must be her fault.
she never thought she would have to
it had never been her
she still does not believe it
it is not true