old generators wail
like a thousand new-borns
the noise will trail
neat rows of houses outside
sifting through her window
like a genie. rub it
piercing all factions of mind, body and soul
an identity fractured is all she offers.
Her bag is empty, her countenance devoid of tricks
her startling brilliance scares cerebral cravings
Her face refuses to launch ships.
Taking cues from her mood – embittered, unyielding.
she is stubborn,
love walks by, the redundant punch line
murdering any hope for exhilaration.
she might be unlovable, This makes her afraid
Sometimes her fears soak up everything around her
It drowns the mood
And kills the light in her lovers eyes
a dark cloudy veil wound tight around her entire being.
It makes her feel safe
Trapped in the sticky marinade
of hyperbolic thoughts
The conveyor belt of mediocre maybes
She frisks them searching
their eyes for security
their arms for strength to hold her baggage
She fights the tyranny of skewed gender narratives
prohibited from wanting more and calling first
playing it kind of cool so the bubble won’t burst
drinking pictures to subdue her thirst
you might be unlovable, this makes her afraid