This woman sits at a table by herself
And can’t believe that she exists
The way she does.
Falling apart with a smile.
Falling down, never landing.
She stares at the leaking cup.
With the heaviest and emptiest of stomachs.
Glances out of her window and hears her bones crack.
Everybody talks about love but
She can’t see it, find it, identify it.
Stuck on this chair, she drowns in her own past.
Holding on to things she beat to death.
Never setting roots in the present.
Her face on the table, the coffee spilled,
The silhouette of her features,
The handcuffed girl within her,
That childhood creature.
She thinks she’s under her bed.
Afraid of the person that put her there.
Round and round it goes.
The mother’s wailing.
The father’s running steps.
Bodies out the window.
The frames of her life.
Taking her breath away.
The chapel of a church a comfortable
Place that finally welcomes her
When all sounds vacate her rooms.
Croque-Melpomene 