cinematic expressions of inner self-loathing if there are no mirrors to smash
she breathes. pauses.
cloth brushes against her calves calmly,
and clouds are building and boiling over the water.

wind scoops up the fabric of her skirt,
sways and twirls it, an invisible semaphore,
signaling to the tiny faint stars half-erased by the imminent rain.

the dull, greasy feel of a night storm is creeping up under her sleeves,
smearing her cheeks.

she closes her eyes, gathers her karma, and prays for lightning.

sweet words