she is short.
four feet?
chocolate brown eyes.
i think she belongs to my mother.
she likes popsicles.
the ones that turn her tongue blue
and drip down her fingers.
maybe she is my neighbor’s.
she can’t be me.
i am short
but i always feel
like i take up too much space.
she isn’t me.
i don’t eat sugar.
not because i don’t like it.
but because men and mirrors.
i gave her away.
to the streets?
far away.
she was demanding.
or maybe
i left her in the train station
and she watches all the people
run nowhere.
if you find her
please do not return.
take care of her
because i couldn’t.
About the Creator
Sara
Don’t look for love.
Be love.
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181 Keeping Watch
Each day she watched through her window. Watched? Perhaps an exaggeration: a monochromatic nuclear aftermath remaining of the world, blurring into a blindness--loss of contrast and depth of field. Achromatic aberrations displayed a waste-scape stratified in grays.
By Gerard DiLeo2 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
You convey such a sense of alienation and aloneness. It's heartbreaking but beautiful.
Jaw droppingly good, throat tearingly sad! I don't know what else to say!