I became numb
like a dried petal,
posing for pictures,
yet so close to crumble.
The thread pulled tightly,
and ribs corseted closed
unable to carry breathe
or speak the words that
scratch the top of my mouth.
Wanting to be a good woman,
I emerge mannequin,
hoping not to break
illusion with movement.
I am a clumsy masochist at best.
I continue to wake every morning.
Not a bathing beauty,
or ambitious explorer.
Not a teacher, or poet, or guide,
nor lap cat provided with secure function.
Without purpose, I only continue.
I used to trust in friendship,
assume confidence from conversations,
validations from simple smiles.
Now I cross myself in the morning
before covering my feet.
I keep my anger in an empty vase
that gathers dust on windowsill.