Sleep eludes her, as she stays awake, 

Soundly stumbling

Through

 Her many thoughts: 

So many stories,

Several sights.

She’s seldom able to slumber even a second

During the sable night, 

Each so tight 

With saltant sorrow. 

But how else could she deal with the loss? 

How could she 

Do anything 

But scream? 

Selfishly scream? 

Her sallow screech 

Said everything, 

But meant nothing at all. 

Empty tears flooded her swollen eyes and

Spilled over 

Soaking the materials stained so many times 

By sloppily-stuck mascara. 

The spots of salty stream welled 

And slowly fell, 

Each seeming more forceful 

Than the last. 

Her slight figure shuddered 

With a shocking slew of somberness 

As she desperately plead for mercy, 

For sanctuary, 

For the sudden surge of strength 

That would carry her through 

To ease the suffering of her 

Steadily served adversity. 

Her loves say: 

‘She is a masochist;’ 

Her sister says, 

‘She is a slob.’

Her sometimes silent but otherwise rambunctious brain says, 

‘It is all my fault.’

The priest prays 

And the neighbors wave, 

But despite their “help,” 

She’s distraught 

And years after she finds salvation,

 Sunny faces will still have her sought.

Her tales will be whispered on playgrounds

Adolescents will have seen it online 

Adults will weep 

While the elders speak 

Of how ‘it was sudden,’ and, 

The poor dear, 

‘Not her time.’ 

She sliced skin 

And shed red 

Showcasing a smile 

Whilst her wrists 

Moved in saccadic flicks. 

Sobs further blossomed 

As she saw 

The ribbons flow, 

No longer fighting 

To hold on. 

Her sickened heart was sold. 

Her chest ached as she swallowed her pride,

 Slumped against the tiles, 

Her patience worn frightfully thin.

Pale lips blew

One last sigh 

As she spied the last 

Swirls of anguish 

Swivel their way 

Down 

To the drains. 

She shook, 

But, 

In this moment, 

Of happiness, 

Relieved she shan’t need to worry 

About ‘tomorrow,’ 

Or another Sunday, 

Again.