on the corner, there’s a woman.
and she’s a mother to the small things,
a soldier on the battlefield of life.
she loses herself in the flames that
engulf her and
she wishes she was a real poet
who knew how to summon words.
she wishes she was chosen,
just once, but the world
she loves does not love her back
and she cannot convince it to.
someone else’s bones seem stronger,
less brittle, unkempt but beautiful.
the curls on her head move like
the waves
but the words on the page
do not speak back to her
and the candle blows out
the evening closes in
with its unbridled attachment
and she’s alone with the darkness,
making a home in its skin.