Something I Wrote

Homeless Girl

She was 14.
That was it.
She was 14.
Yet her wrists looked like ancient scripts.
Hieroglyphs.
She was once a blank canvas.
Now her thighs took on the works of Van Gogh and Picasso
In the most horrifying way.

She struggles.

She takes on things no one can imagine and she beats them down.
But she struggles.
She’s barely hanging on.
Her grip on reality as fickle as peanut brittle.
She doesn’t get to be happy.
The parents
The friends
The relatives
They all look at her
Some like she’s cool
Some like she’s a disappointment
She doesn’t know what she is.

She doesn’t get it.          

Why do these things happen to her?
She doesn’t get it.
She doesn’t think she ever will.
When her thoughts implode on her all at once.
Why is she still here?
Why didn’t she pull that trigger when she had the chance?
Why didn’t she jump out of that car into the highway?
When these things happen repeatedly
Why does she avoid acting on them
Knowing that they’ll just reoccur
Because that’s what they do?

She walks with that ball and chain 

Except that ball is her actual soul.
Except that chain is her soul’s one and only way to stay intact with her body.
Her tangible self
Carries that ball and chain.
Her tangible self
Knows that said ball and said chain are weighing her down.
Yet
Her tangible self
For some reason
Refuses to let go.
Her tangible self
Has always believe that her soul can overcome
Her tangible self
Has always been optimistic the through trials and tribulations.
Her tangible self
Is what everyone sees on the outside.
Her tangible self
Is upbeat and bright
Yet

Her tangible self
Is having trouble hanging on.