Leaving trails
of long flaxen hair,
she scurries away and
wishes them fair
in the game she loves to play.

The trail leads back
to a room with
one vacant chair,
across the table she sits
with a vacant stare.

Hand fluctuates between
tapping nails on flat surface,
inhaling cancer to
sooth some comfort
and itching a scratch
too far down her back.

The walls lined with
crimson velvet,
they never collapse.
Each pump of blood,
they expand and
close in with lost content.

She runs her hand
through her soft hair,
she'll be bald by
the time he gets there.
She finds it worth it
when they finally take a stand.
Do a little dance
in the rhythm of their preference.

She cracks a smile,
rolls her eyes.
One of these days,
one of the hundred thousand strands
will lead a boy to hold her hand.

Someone to watch grow as a man.
Someone to help her learn to understand.
Someone to make life long vows.
Someone to show her how to
fix the weight in her brow.