she becomes her own truth
on a Thursday,
one like all others but not;
lashes hook to awake,
pin hope against the soiled light
that is dark and suffocating
so empty and tired-
an open grave with seams
bent skyward
partly because
her dreams refuse the quiet:
in one she chases money;
in another seeks a path to self-
one dream actually - two angles,
all one struggle
to bring the men
with knives, to someday
be able
to pay the summons.
for assassins are costly,
daggers poised ready in palms
that speak the politics of coin,
those men who will cut his body
open,
snip along dotted-lines
until Aphrodite walks free.
but mostly due to days
spent tightly clung
to the roof of her mouth-
if she had less pride
she could ask for an angel
to build her a charity.
but the world is filled
with need and she cares too
much to accept her own
above the weight of others.
there is an unkind honesty
in self-obsessed.
Silver trophy winner
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