staining her face
bilaterally, a study
in defeat.
When I ask her why she
runs, places
every dream in a
bottle, there is only
more pain
and trembling, an
honest answer.
I wonder why she tries
so hard to survive
this life, some others
would rather take flight.
But today she has done nothing
wrong, all the mistakes
of the past resting in her
eyes and a folder
too thick to close.
She only wants her daughter,
the one she neglected
in a drunken delerium, and
for all these next days to pass,
the most cruel ones.
She only wants go to home.
I get that. How often have I been horrified
by life and
prayed for
my own bed to hold me?
