no title

she sits
at about 1 in the afternoon,
but it is not that time to those
that surround her.
and change is so apparent,
pushback so common,
that she expects nothing at all,
but that it all turns out
ok.

tiny blemishes may cover her face,
and body,
while underneath are caves
filled with delusion
and things unknown
to the faults outwardly displayed.

but they occasionally
come back to bite her
and she breaks down
only to stop from getting
up.

tell me,
tell me,
she wails to herself,
sitting alone,
but it’s not heard–

the dialogue in her head
speaks volumes
about her.

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