slumped against the armoir,
still blinking,
respiration clear,
but she does not live.
the shell merely mimics movements,
the daily:
get up.
get dressed.
put on your mask.
trudge into the world.
return home.
Let sleep take you under.
repeat.
She lifts her eyes
weary,
to the corner with her worn down shoes
tallying the photos of things she had
once upon a time loved,
hope flickers through her soul,
abruptly blanketed, smothered by
the weight of her own alienation
finally,
she begins to rise into the after smoke of the flame,
gray mist abandoned,
still staring into unfathomable distances
wishing for reprieve, if even momentarily
just a break she prays,
just one more laugh
to replace her hollowed sobs.
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