Her chin was high,
so that
the creases in the skin upon her neck
were all smoothed over.
Her eyes were glazed,
like they were glaring over
a newborn baby.
I only wish that's what she had created.

She told me,
"This is what I deserve.
This is what I've worked for.
This
is
my newborn.
The things I've done..."

Oh the things she'd done.
Woe the many nights she'd spent
crying,
curling upon her bed.
Palming the sheets, then grasping them
as if some fire beneath
could be extinguished with the motion.

"What is it you deserve, my sweet?
Your chin is so high
that it prevents you
from seeing what's beneath.
The things you've done
are what they are,
done.
So please,
tell me one thing
before you blame the world.
Tell me why you expect
both hands laid down...
...We all have a story.
We all…
…have a story.”