She feels insignificant and self-absorbed sometimes.
Her lungs, neglected, cut, overused and inept
Cough and bellow through the piercing, shouting winter’s wind.
She prays for good health, her own happiness, success.
But not for world peace or Cancer’s cure.
She must save her voice.
There are only so many stances one life can make.
Choose wisely. Her words resonate and repeat.
She’s not mean.
No one ever taught her to reflect and fight for humanity.
And anyway, others must have it easier than she, she long ago concludes.
Her knees are brittle, her feet like soggy stones.
Her face, her fingertips, her ears, her cheeks… exposed.
She is alone. Only the trees above know her whereabouts.
They watch her, mock her, and even if they didn’t shun her worthless life,
They don’t have a phone. There’s never been a need before.
Abandoned, disgusted and disliked by her only company,
Her beating, retreating heart and the unforgiving winter’s wind, the trees, and the sky above.
For so long she’s practiced lessons on self-advocacy.
She perfected the slogan be your own best friend, at least outwardly.
A thousand pillows, a hundred blankets could not warm her anguish amidst this wind.
And no one is coming to her aide.
She’s not delusional. She’s not mean.
She’s insignificant and self-absorbed most times.
She’s lost. Been waiting for Spring all her life.
A chance to reconnect, regroup, redo. It’s gone.
No one answered her concerned calls home she only thought to make today.
Her body is left desperate and desolate and cutting like the wind.
Her path? A parting the trees above, nothing more.
No birds will tweet when she is gone, no owls will hoot.
No one cares.
But what a view, oh the view.
And the trees, and the breeze, and her fitting end.
How long it’s taken to find this place.
To feel alive and free and silent.
She feels insignificant and self-absorbed sometimes, but not today.