It was a quiet morning Not unlike most mornings for her…she wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck, the place she carries her stress, and pulled it even tighter around her ugly truth, wishing she had remained aloof and anonymous.
She sips from her porcelain cup, in silent contemplation. Dreaming. Wondering what it would be like looking at a woman’s reflection that says, self assured, strong and sufficient, confident in her stride, competent in her performance. Yet in the next breath the veil is so easily blown away. Revealing only a reflection of a woman falling short once again. A woman lacking worth in her own eyes and in the eyesight of others.
The only womanly things she possesses are passion and quiet femininity, which are not much to behold in such a judgmental world. These useless possessions lay under a coating far less desired than clothes of the same age, in better shape. How unseemly she remains to the outer fray.
She swallows a sip of cold coffee. How like her life that sip reminds her. They only desired her when she was hot & fresh. Scalding tongues with her flavor and boldness. She wasted her youth and her flavor now suffers. They must think she’s generic grounds…lacking
She thinks of her mortality as her red painted nails trace the delicate lines of blue against pale flesh. Her mortality as thin as the inside of her wrist, one slip of a razor, blood spills in silence. One injection of poison, bloodsurge to her heart, stopping it. But doesn’t her heart stop daily when she awakens once again to the cold chill of silent grey walls? There is no relief of her heart’s aching. Or ceasing of her bloodflow…
Her sadness comes in waves, leaving as quickly as it arrives. As if to remind her that she is the wax and wane of tides. As unpredictable as the seas. A heart as heavy as salt. Love as strong as death.