The Blip

Her heart is in crisis. It's repressed and finite.

She'll tell you she's sorry, but you'll refuse just for spite.

Looking ahead, she only sees smoke, no way through,

Only ghosts of before filling the room.

Her head has come loose from where it once sat,

tight on her shoulders, with a chip on its lap.

The love she once felt, now only a cave

and a fear of the dark, her best friend--the grave.

She's done this to herself, lovesick under stars.

Dumb love songs about pictures and "a love story like ours."

She won't believe any of it was meant for her, and you'll get the gist,

she's only that girl who may one day be missed.

No concrete to pour, only mud under her feet.

Just one heavy rain, and it will be a clean sweep.

As the storm forces them to wave an "adieu,"

and without direction to know what to do,

she's destined to wander at the expense of the rest.

Though once so ready to give it her best;

she showed up, studied, and still failed the test.

She'd wanted to pledge but instead flew the nest.

Now the face in the mirror stares back without mercy,

a dulled flicker-less flame, alone on this journey.

She's afraid to waffle or waver or even commit,

Irredeemable and unhappy, I'm afraid to admit.

She's not her, not like you,

but something else. Something worse.

Something sick, maybe strange, and even perverse.

Not the last or the first, just the drab in-between,

a pair of blue eyes they wish they'd never seen.

Too late to back out. Her oily hand lost its grip,

destined now to be some sort of catastrophic blip.

Longing and searching for some kind of worth,

but she's only a speck, the smallest on Earth.