Blood Stained Cigarette

There’s something wonderful

About the fierceness of her
Living between shadows and glances
Peering at you from the universe beyond dark circles
And hollowed-out eyes
Daring you to match her stare
Waiting for you to look away
As so many others have before
She’s slipped through enough cracks from childhood on
To break the backs of many generations of mothers
But she’s still here
And always will be.

She lives in many faces

Fierce and intelligent
Belligerent, yet kind
There is so much more brimming inside her
So much that she could tell
But not yet
Maybe, not even ever
To her, vulnerability is worse than a slap
More obscene than rape
Along with all the things she’s been molded
And toughened by

Brick

Built

Upon brick,
With all the skill of a master-craftsman.

She
Along with those who gave her gifts best never received
Constructed a keep
Where she lives flagrantly concealed
Rarely looking out
Or in
Breathing diseased memories
Through her nostrils
Like fire.


She exists from day-to-day


Yet, something more is there
A child
The one who died the day she was born
The one who will not let her go
Not let her grow
Beyond devastation.


Her eyes tell you the truths

That her lips cannot.

She smiles

Knowing you’ve peeked through a crack in her foundation
But before the next blink
She’ll have applied enough mortar
So that you’ll never see her again

Then she’ll sit back


Seemingly relaxed
Yet inwardly terrified
That you’ll be able to see her again,
So she crosses her legs
and takes a
Good

Long

Drag

From her blood-stained cigarette.