Her

Her mouth resembles that of cotton, and not the overly-sweet candy kind.

Hearing “don’t frown, you’ll get wrinkles” only makes her eyebrows furrow even deeper; her frustration as visible as ever.

 

Every morning she grabs her invisible bottle of nihilism and takes her daily dose of hard-to-swallow pills.

Posture was never a priority — she ends up slouching in even the most supportive of chairs.

 

Seeing is believing but at this point she might as well be one of the Three Blind Mice.
Hope seems too far out of reach and swallowing air hurts as if she’s an astronaut whose oxygen line has just been cut.

 

Maybe lack of concentration is a personal problem, or maybe its saying something — screaming even.
Forgetting safe sidewalks, jumping from building to building seems more exciting, at least for some time; now the spaces-in-between just seem to get wider and wider and leaping is scary when no one is there to hold your hand.

 

When was the last time someone did, anyway?

 

The last time she felt something — anything — was when she was engulfed in a hug with Fate.

 

In her dreams she climbs up the Giant Beanstalk only to find that the only giant waiting for her is Apathy and he tells her that boredom is a protruding look on her.

Shrugging it away may be the right answer, I mean there isn’t really anyone to tell her otherwise.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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