Misanthrope

She took in her hands her tousled hair,
And in the mirror she stared
“I will not be like you.”
On her bedroom floor, that whirlwind there
A fray wrought of discarded layers;
Worn once and over, and never before
Oh, tumult, Identity’s despair.
On her walls, those faces wept
Of the promises she never kept,
Yet told they a testament complete.
Down! she tore them, and behold
A room so empty, a room so cold.
She grabbed her hat and grabbed her shoes
To them she said,
“I will not be like you.”
The dogmatic rain had
Flavored the sky,
Of the sad world in her eyes.
And to survive this tribulation,
Meant innocence's desecration.
Better yet, she just wanted a change.
Away, away, she summoned her chariot,
So worn, so weak, so flawed
“I will not be like you.”
At last, away the world she signed
Her crooked smile she thought aligned
“I will not be like you.”
And it was such a great fall.