She waits
Waiting for the phone to ring
Waiting for an end in the arguing
It keeps her up all night
but she’s gotten used to the silence
In the darkness, she finds a balance
her mind races
Each passing day feels the same
When repetition is her only game
dragging herself out of bed
hanging onto life by the thread
And out into the world she goes
but inside, she withers like a rose
Feeling like an unread book upon the shelf
Ink upon her skin, she’s an artwork in itself
standing there in her home-made dress
she sewed with the threads of distress
But she’s not dressed to impress
The perfect mess