want turned weary, faded
between the lines
of her transparent life, edited
by unfocused, foreign
eyes.
if she was so easily read,
there would be more to her answer
than this:
everything slips,
falls behind pages turned
too many times-
dog-eared, twisted by eyes
that hid
behind books of need.
long dusty. Unread.
and, in the wrong light,
every bookcase becomes a metaphor
for vacant.
people are complex, with so much ease
each is the same,
simply read by different light,
so she looks to her words
to uncover when she was damaged
like this,
ignores those absent marks
of others - unsettled
in her margins.
Gold trophy winner
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