there was a blackness
that inked her arms
and filled her lungs
and told her she was not good enough
that there was no light,
only the dark and the dark and the dark.
that They would win.
They had guns
and hate
and war
and war.
and They might win.
the blackness told her they would win.
and she was nothing.
she was nothing.
she looked out onto the great sky
and wondered if she was the first to feel this way.
she realized she must not be.
she wondered how they stopped feeling this way.
would she ever stop feeling this way?
she heard the birds sing and
she saw the sun glow
and she saw all the light and life,
but it did not make her feel alive.
she wanted to feel alive again,
to breath and cry and love.
but They had their weapons
and schemers
and sciences set to do great evils.
and she was nothing.
she was nothing.
she felt an internal war raging inside of herself,
but she did nothing to settle it.
why should she?
she had never tried this internal war.
it left all this space for possibility
she decided she liked the idea of possibility.
there was the possibility that tomorrow might be a little better.
there was also the possibility is might be far worse.
she frowned.
where could she find the alive feeling?
was it hidden in the paradox of carcinogenic cigarettes,
or in cups of burning liquor,
or in the bitter beauty of a clean silver blade
against her porcelain skin?
but then she remembered they had blades.
Oh, They had knives and shanks and swords,
so she set aside the sharpness
with trembling fingers.
she looked out onto sky once more
it's color now dark and as unsure as her
and even in the peaceful nightfall she could
hear the leaves rustle and insect click
and she could see the sort of life there.
something was always alive
it was just never
her.
