Her hair a messy, dark auburn.
Bangs frame diamond shaped face,
glasses rest on tanned,
strong bridge of nose and
lips lay atop each other,
a soft permanent frown.
She walks tall, she’s been through hell, a clear
cliche but hasn’t every
writer? Self esteem high,
she commands the respect from others
as soon as heels tap into a room. She is brilliant,
a fallacy unproven by dwindling
GPA. Well-versed in literature and dealing
with families that don’t care,
Mother tells her, Speak up, we can’t hear you.
She writes of life in every form
death, sex and love,
broken. She drank in sleep and pale sunlight.
Jokes about her love, her family, they
leave her lips laced with laughter
but traces of a bruised psyche
drip down her chin like the bitter
black coffee she sips.
We know its reek, we know the dying
she burdens the air with.