she sits there - a modern-day, selfish Atlas

she sits there,
all golden-brown hair bundled
onto the top of her head,
her nails bitten to the quick, 
her eyes a warm ice-blue
freckles reaching in thin fingers
across her cheeks.

she sits there,
all tears-streaking-skin,
fingers clenching the duvet,
shoulders hunched forwards,
spine slumped down, 
eyes red-rimmed and shining with
unshed tears that beg to be let go,
throat ejecting broken hiccups. 

she sits there,
all agonized harmony, 
so beautiful in her sadness,
mind ripping at the edges of her sanity,
heart clawing at her ribs,
desperate to be released, 
skin too tight,
labels peeling off in the rain.

she sits there,
all wonder, wonder at how
she always finds herself 
writing about siblings and friends,
maybe because she wants a 
relationship with her sister
where she can talk to her, 
and sure, she'll be gone in 
3 months, give or take, 
but it was a 3 months spent in 
stiff silences and frustration. 

she sits there,
all erased-identity, 
trying to define herself to 
a world that will not accept
her as she is right now. 
her soul explodes and sinks
into her flesh, it pushes out
until it can no longer be ignored,
it bursts bright in a flash 
a flash of forgotten light.

she sits there, 
all burning sun and 
self-destructive fire, 
trying to find a way to 
sneak a peek at the
opposing team's cards 
while also trying to win 
with a losing hand. 
she implodes 
and hides it oh-so-well.

she sits there,
all jealousy and sadness
and all these other ugly, negative
emotions that destroy her, 
she hates their skin on hers, 
she hates their hugs and smiles,
she hates how they can be 
so there in all the wrong ways
and so not there in all the wrong ways. 
they never manage to get 
anything right these days.

she sits there, 
all faded-kisses and blank pages,
a memory that's beginning to wash away,
replaced by the brighter colors of a new age, 
the next generation stepping up to the podium 
trying to take over before her era is over, 
she protects her reign with a fearsome rage.
she is likened to a sandstorm. 

she sits there, 
all burnished-bronze and 
bloody-copper that shines
in the light of capability, 
she is faced with her failures
and no-one can quite decide
if she shows bravery or cowardly-ness.

she sits there,
all unsung triumph
and uncharted losses,
she is empty inside, 
filled with regret and oxygen, 
a burgundy mixture that finds itself
becoming volatile and injuring.
it is bad, just like she always was.

she sits there,
all vulnerability and 
crying teenager, 
and she tries to contain herself,
but she spills over the edges
and her mop will not
absorb the screams she released
once upon a faery-tale. 

she sits there,
all worn out like an
old rug being used beyond
its years could take. 
she is pushing past her 
expiration date, unknown to most,
and she is not a hero.
and she is not a villain. 
she is only human,
and all human beings 
must break at some point.

(her eyes are puffy and red,
racoon-like in the glowing light
from the bedroom window.
she is resplendent, wearing her 
electric blue eyes and freckles
and her sadness like a 
weight that she cannot be rid of.
she is like atlas.
her burden is both her own
and everyone else's.
but she carries it all the same.)

The End

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