Skin and bones
Her face was hollow, her eyes sunken
Every word she spoke, which were few,
Rang with sadness for a while
Then rang with nothing.

She was dead, though still alive
She had no spirit left to fight
Nothing could raise joy, and
Her days were one seamless routine:
Wake, cry, eat, cry, sleep.

Days blended until she could not remember,
even if she had tried.
He faded away in her memory, and she was left
to cling uselessly to scraps,
Like her skin clung to her bones.

Then she started listening.
The bird’s song wasn’t beautiful, at first,
but something to marvel at
(Though these words imply passion,
she had none for the bird’s song.)

The creek that hissed and whistled alongside her house
Wasn’t joyful or babbling, yet,
but something to sit beside and stare
(Joyful and babbling are too strong, as well,
as she had no love for the creek that hissed and whistled.)

Even the roar of trucks on the highway
Wasn’t angry or deafening, up till now,
Just something to stare at, too weak to cross the street
(These are not the right words, anger
is only perceived by those who want to feel it.)

Skin and bones
Empty
Skeleton
Corpse
Ghost

She was dead and alive
A living ghost
Not anymore.
She killed herself on June 2nd,
1931.