Twenty five years and what have you done? 

You are still just a little girl, a little girl 

afraid of the world. Terrified of being lost, invisible  

to the world that already doesn’t know who you are. 

You do not exist to them, and it’s so pitiful you think so. 


When I see you- 

mossy eyes, mud caked on your cheeks in little splatters; 

different colors that rouse your mood, tainting your roots- 

I am disgusted with you. 


Not even halfway through and you’re already so tired.  


Tell me what have you gained? 

What have you to show for these years- all those scars? 

A daughter and then two, a cat minus one? 

A man that uses you, bleeding hearts and split up wombs-

what is of value to you? 

Do you know what you are living for? 


Now here you are crying, and even if I cared to ask,  

you couldn’t tell me why. 






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