Nonchalantly,
she pours herself another midnight,
knowing the dawn is half a dozen stops away.
the night wasted.
bitter and half tasted.
A part of her crumbles
tumbles to the ground
unobserved by midnight riders
dock workers
tik tokkers
clock watchers
the world too busy
to notice or care
about the cracks
in her broken. mutilated. sky.
Somehow, only the hushed moon
and the air brushed stars
know the reasons why.
Grace notes: If you’re a nobody, does anyone really care if you feel tortured, struggling or alone? # the anonymity of non-celebrity
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