Watching the pretty girl in pig tails from her mirror.

Breathe deep.

Eyes closed.

Facing forward.

Tracing lines in trance like states,
has never been so pretty.

With that curve,
in her lip.
and she's biting her tongue.

She's waiting..
for the next sound,
to inspire her,
and make her move.

Was that rain?
Falling down fast.
or the sound
of a car crash?

Either way,
She's still
underneath.

From that cellar
room.

Journal in her lap,
Her pretty pens
just lying by her side,
Expectant.
They all have their own
colors/personalities.

She's sweating through her shirt
Her hands are shaking
Cold and
here I am
SUFFOCATING
for her eyes
to open.

And see me
in this
Panic Attack- life.

This quietly false sense of security
holding us tight.
I'm still waiting.
Outside her cellar door.
She's still waiting,
Poised to strike.
Where has it gone?

That inspiration?

She's still faking her way through.

It takes all the time in the world
to quietly admire
their efforts,
to keep the sky from crashing down on us.

But we'll get it.
We will be strong.
We can learn to carry,
out own skies!
defiance.




But we still lose control.
and separate.

She still locks herself in her little room,
so she can breathe without their air.

I wish she would stop fighting,

and walk awhile outside,

maybe just for me?