Without Time To Weep
Alone, the cold wind
pinches her skin, her
lamp flickering before it
goes out in the kitchen.
Without time to weep
she's forgotten how to
care when the sky tears
open and leftover scars
have stained her soul.
Abstract joy no longer
comes in boxes and she
polishes every silence
between breaths before
her palms, once shaped
like empty rosebuds,
now fist her hopes.
She's become a collector
of shredded wallpaper,
her heart like the glow
of a dying candle in a
dusty window.
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