She comes into the room
like she’s got scissors tucked
in the pocket of an apron—
unnoticed until you feel her there,
sharp and unexpected.
Her hair spills over her shoulders—
a mess of black feathers.
Her hands, thin and scratched,
grip her phone tightly,
as if it’s the only thing
keeping her from losing
her sanity.
I watch her sit—like a lotus flower,
knees tucked up, one bare foot
dangling over the side of the couch—
a small protest against the dirt in her life—
she didn’t choose.
She speaks like honey poured too fast—
thick, spilling over her lips.
Every word is stumbling a story
she often forgets to finish.
Her laugh breaks open
like a bird caught in a storm—
a sound too wild, too raw
to hold in all at once.
She doesn’t laugh for joy—
she laughs like it’s a weapon,
sharp—aimed at the places
she’s already bleeding.
Lenore watches me—
like a crow watching the sky,
needing to survive.
She tells me she’s leaving,
the same way she’d tell me
we ran out of milk.
She keeps on talking
as she goes to the kitchen—
her fingers trembling
as she stirs a *** of soup
no one wants to eat now.
I write down her words,
each one landing ******* my chest—
a tape to rewind and cry over later.
I think she’s always been leaving,
one small step at a time.
And when she goes,
I will find her feathers
all over this old house—
black, soft,
tiny reminders of the girl
too tired to stay.