A self-pitying shadow on the world,
this girl, this freak, this lost soul,
who curses her own being.
The busy hoard
buzzes around barely acknowledging
her presence.
Like a chill from a ghost,
they’ll hug themselves,
retreat,
be among others like them,
not to think on her again.

Alone,
she laughs.
Alone,
she weeps.
No one walks through her door.
No beloved’s embrace comforts her.

No mask or truth has won her a place
in the heart of another
or a wealth of friends.
Her life is an empty bed.
Elusive comfort so craved,
searched for
in overdoses of television, sleep.
Pop another pill, drink another drink…
ah yes,
deadening,
easing,
releasing.

She wonders at her existence,
and if there could be any meaning
to a life of emptiness,
to a life unloved,
to a life so unnoticed and unnecessary.
Wonders at a God so cruel that
this body-machine ticks on endlessly.
That as her soul weeps, aches, yearns, screams,
He condemns her to live another day.