She sits,
still and cold in her glass jar
hunched and molded against its rigid
shape.
She wants them far, out
while they try to break in.
Sealed herself in this vessel
shut tight
air stale
untouched.
There is a coldness that touches her skin,
a fragment of her heart, a silver sliver
she uses
to scratch the words of solace
on the surface
for herself
and everyone like her.
But they come and go
they leave her,
isolated in this empty shell
that even her own presence
seems to
cease to
exist.