The Girl

The girl sat on an empty street Her face was as sullen as her surroundings She softly lifted her face in hopes of a single ray of sun A single indication of faith A suggestion that there could be something left But there was none. No one was there to watch. No one was there to care. She was, in all senses, alone. She was not sure of how much time she had spent sitting Waiting And waiting And waiting But did she truly want anyone? Did she want anyone to care? To try to stop her? Would the outcome not be the same regardless? Did she really expect someone to listen to the words she could never say? The pristine, gray buildings seemed to mock her Mock her irregularity Her size Her thoughts Her life She never was able to conform, now was she? But she was no longer herself A sort of deterioration had separated her Can a body, in fact, be fully intact with its mind? Or is it all a hallucination? Are there actually any bodies at all? Her mind raced her predetermined body Who could win? Her body had already given her mind a head start, of course It had already begun to weaken her The societal ideals The standards The march of plastic, machine-made dolls These are what she thought truly plagued her That is, at least, until she came to the realization that there is A fear that only she can comprehend A voice that only she can hear An atelophobia that only she can apprehend A sense of alienation that only she can depreciate A touch that only she can trace A love that only she can grasp A creation that only she can build A disappointment that only she can feel A last cry that only she can compose A decision that only she can make A last breath that only she can expand A last pill that only she can swallow A final satisfaction that only now can she truly discover Her body now acted as her mind said Her words poured onto the page An escape A release from reality The simple act of writing transformed her She was free at last Her mind had finally won And her body accepted its defeat I was finally complete.