The subjectivity in the world still scares her
Like a little girl, dwindling in her room,
The vastness outside her drowning out
That meek little voice of hers.

It’s too loud; it’s too much
Her heart cannot swallow all the
World’s anguish
So instead she thrusts forth,
Razorblades at her wrists,
A cosmic determination lining
Her lips.

No, no, today is not the end
It is neither the beginning nor
The start. It is a quixotic trance
And she’s left out there in the cold.

Dank, deep, a sadness that consumes
And in the willows outside her window
All she sees are the bluebirds nesting
They are warm
They are whole
They carry on