Slipped out from below her
She swore she could race the clock
Running away from her times of helplessness.
It’s almost too familiar now
But the sky gave its farewell long ago
She cannot progress much longer
Slowing down with each step.
Each new alley a different temporary home
Nowhere else to go.
Inhaling concrete oxygen,
The air is thick and hard to breathe.
Sleep is foreign to her
Her tired eyes have no color left.
The rich chocolate truffles turned into the wick of a burned candle.
Her muscles sore like a piece of string being stretched
To the point where it almost snaps
Stress walking her nerves like a man on a tightrope.
Her only family is now a stray dog
They have more in common than a pair of shoes
Lost, Lonely, Unloved
Home is an eternity away
She’s searched for years
With no idea of even what direction to run
She just wants to feel the heat of love again
A family or friend for comfort
Arms to hold her when she’s distressed
No, she’s all alone.
Running out of energy
Leaning against a wall
Her back sliding against the rough bricks
Scratching deep into her skin
Thin, burning lines marking her back
Scars are less painful than her own reflection
In a small dumpster nearby
An empty journal, gently placed on top of all the trash
A few pages missing
A black leather cover with one scratch
The scratch showing the brighter side underneath the darkness
A black pen, so much ink it’s almost
There’s no one to write to
What good is a journal for a girl like her
Yet there is something mysterious about the journal
Pulling her to it, so
She takes it anyway.
Sitting in that alley
She writes all night
The black pen glued to her fingers
Every last drop of ink melted into the paper
Creating a lifetime of words
She wrote all night
Until her story is written
And the sun peaked it’s little eye from out of the dark and
Every endeavor written in a single little journal.
The last sentence
My name is...
What if she does not want to be that girl anymore?
The painful memories associated with that name
Could she leave it all behind?
A different name, a different person?
Too tired to think
Pen in hand
She writes the name that is her own
And that is the end.
That is the end of her
She sleeps forever
Never waking up
For if she woke up, there would be more to add to the journal
But there are
No more pages
No more lines
No more spaces
No more time
No more life
Not even enough room for a period
Only a tear stain to end her story