Hope P.M.

The air doesn’t hold her like it used to.
It’s afraid she’s become too malleable.

The Sun rises just for her as a plea to be noticed, to be bathed in. She scowls at it instead sinking deeper into herself because what’s the point of living if everyone is out to get you.

The sound of her heart beat is less rhythmic and more like the chimes of old e’s rolling around in a plastic bag. Her eyes brimming with blame and every breath flowing like spirits unconcerned about an afterlife.

The darkness sets between a holy moon and dazzling street lights and kisses the back of her hand the way gentlemen do. What’s a sip or two if it stops the hurt?

The air doesn’t hold her like it used to.
It just can’t find a way in.

-erica jeudy ©

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