autobiography
they merely looked innocent
before blood pooled under her eyes--
naive and vulnerable.
so much baggage
beneath her lids
no man will ever want her.
and her body:
petite bones
looking for a proper burial place--
now congealed with fat and
draining the marrow she no longer needs;
so inhuman
no one will want to touch her.
skelletal child brought back to life
with a faint, pale voice
that seems real at first inspection
and at second cursory glance
is a fragile gust of wind.
unreal
surreal
no one will have even known her.