“Momma, where you going?”
She doesn’t look back.
“Momma, are you leaving me?”
She glances over her shoulder,
Eyes flinty,
Smile cold.

There’s a little girl,
Running down the stairs,
Dragging a stuffed giraffe,
Pigtails soaring,
Cheeks rosy,
Eyes bright.

She clutches her giraffe.
Innocent.
She looks to the gun in her mom’s hand.
Naïve.
She waits for her mother to speak.
Expectant.

“Momma’s leaving,” the woman says.
Patronizing.
“Momma’s leaving and never coming back.”

Bang.
And she never did.

Years later, she sits
Somewhere no one knows her.
She has no family now.
Only people who pretend to love her.
Fake, all of them.
Just like her.

She stares out the window.
Jaded.
She blinks down at the razorblade in her hand.
Wordly.
She waits for her perfect opportunity.
Patient.

Her giraffe sits,
Beaten and branded by
The wear of Time.
He droops, too weak to stand.
Broken.

The razorblade slides,
And crimson gushes.
The giraffe falls.
And so does she.