by Linda M. Crate
she has a thousand china faces
none of them her own
paints on the
make-up so automatically it
almost looks natural
fakes a smile so good
it breaks her heart;
still no one can see the pain
etched and sewn
deep within,
and if they can they
simply ignore her misery
because her pain is too painful
to face —
blowing in the wind like dandelion
dust she wishes
she could blow into a better
nightmare;
because happiness doesn't speak
into the bones of people
lonely as her
she wasn't born the lucky type
that catches all the breaks
not even sometimes
empty of all promise like the moon
she stands on the ledge of
autumn air,
leaves crimson as her hair
dancing circles around her
as she contemplates becoming a leaf.
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