she is an astronomically shattered spectacle with a grin upon her face, serenity salvaged from suffering, humbled by her pain. her memories tinged dark by rotting apples and condensation from neglected glasses of water leaving rings on the wooden dining room table. the shadowed corners of her childhood home gave her more love than her mother did, embraced her, kept her warm in their ninety degrees. waiting for godot was more lucrative than waiting for mom to come home, and the nights were like the older siblings that played with her out of pity. she does not carry stars in her hair, nor poems or planets. she carries wounds, and rust, and self-abasement because she has lived a life with more slings and arrows within a sea of troubles than any outrageous fortune could amount to, a little girl's body cursed with an all too aged soul. lulled to sleep by winds that carry whispers and cleave themselves to her atoms, singing odes to her defects.
she does not do work that makes her hands bleed, but her mind does in their stead, palms smooth like the stones cast against her, wrists smooth like the mountains she's been trekking. within the confines of the universe, she exhales as dust and dirt tinge her tongue. the millions of miles between stars are waiting for someone to walk their borders. she is going nowhere fast.