and she tries so hard to make beauty
but it just never seems to work out.
on this lonely street corner
with its bad lighting
and worse company,
she pulls out her phone;
but no one's called.
oh no, (no one ever does)
she's left watching as the lighted screen fades away
with the last of her hope(lessness).
oh she tried

try once more;
for beauty,
the voice speaks to her
in a clockwork-sort-of-reminder.
but it reached her too late;

the obituary was in the paper yesterday.
three lines of statistics
(and one invisible plea)