She wraps herself in incompetence
like an oversized sweatshirt,
smothering insecurities before they hatch
inside her eye sockets,
break her open from behind
just so she never sees it coming.
And though it snowed again this morning,
she stood impassive at the window
as flurries flurried past into oblivion,
walked away unhurried while
a door swung shut not noticed in the gloom
and doom and fairytales and backward dreams
she wakes from so unbeautiful.
But there's amazement hiding
underneath her fingernails,
waiting for the day she'll paint them white
like lilies for the funeral of that
girl, the one she used to know
when once upon a time still meant something
and storybook nonsense defined her;
she wishes it would come out and play,
give her rose tinted glasses so she won't see
all the hatred swirling up around her.
Everything she musn't do is one step
farther from her future,
closer to the beginning she wishes
could begin again--
every cup of coffee strips away the innocence
cached between her ribs,
leaking from a broken heart she went looking for
because it was easier than letting go.
A single tear is sliding down her body,
touching all the broken places so imperfectly,
so distractingly vehemently distastefully,
as she slips into this state of somewhat sleep,
warm and cracked and comfortless;
incoherency is something she'll never take for granted
so long as she's compensating for all those
flaws that God forgot to warn her about.
This nightmare's an amazement all its own.