she got on her knees again [how many times this week?].
she whispers to herself, to a god, to anyone that'll listen.
she can't stop.
she's spinning circles around topics she can't avoid.
head-on collisions using nouns and verbs.
swallowing pride and trying doors,
searching for keys and answers.
she's on her knees, whispering again.
she's spitting into palms,
because it's better than holding nothing.
she's choking down drinks and god knows what else.
she can't stop.
she's writing equations in chalk
and diagramming sentences,
just trying to figure out how it's supposed to work.
it.
life, or love, or religion.
purpose.
she's dragging feet, leaving black scuffs behind.
trying to make some mark on the world
until someone buffs it away,
on their knees again.
never ending cycle of submission.
knees scarred and ***** from begging, from laughing,
from imbalance.
until we're flat on our faces,
flipped only to be dolled up in caskets
or kissed goodbye before we
kiss furnaces.

she can't stop.