by Sam Durrant
October 5, 2014
cared enough to ask her the time of day.
Maybe that would have saved her.
And she stretches herself out on the drying rack only when
she's feeling low.
Today, when God came knocking, she was too busy face down
counting the fibers in the carpet.
And chasing love more than she ever chased herself.
He left her cardboard box of potential at the doorstep but
potential weighs so much that she blew it into the breeze
without a second thought.
And burned the box without regret.
The stars could glitter her name and worlds could explode into
fire
but she won't know
She's gone blind to beauty that's not glass and numb to
anything that doesn't touch her tongue.
Every day, she plunges her hand down her throat to pull out
pieces of her lungs
she's barely breathing
but lungs take up so much space.
She's cement, she's plaster.
With bones too heavy and frigid and fragile.
She sleeps with mousetraps at her feet and wire wrapped
monitors on her once heavy heart
Just to make sure it's still there.
She's buried awake, but not alive.
She's been dead for a long time now.
People just don't know because she's still breathing.
Sleeping with skeletons and dirty, cracked fingernails.
She's unsatisfied by food
and just hungry for the flawless empty
She doesn't want to be human, she wants to be art.
Pretty and untouchable.
Empty but admired.
Dead but desirable.
Because there are some of us that would rather be beautiful
than alive.
Just as long as he starts to notice her across the hall.
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