My Wilting Flower

She watches with glazed eyes.

Tepid pools of aquamarine

drowning her spirit

in depthless cold.

Hair tremoring before shadowed face –

she waits.

The yearning was a transparent wall

Swallowing fluorescent light

with only ripples to tell the story.

If only the lies came easier

a smile

a laugh

a projection of normalcy.

But she is dying

Weighted beneath the rippling surface of her eyes

Struggling to breath.

She is gathering at the corners of her eyes,

rolling down pale cheek,

and brushed away by shamed hand.

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