No Post on Sunday

She kicks her heels up and falls forward into a gait that will only inspire further ridicule. This woman is her. This woman is her.

She will sink into nothing without asking for anything. She will wrap her bare arms around the vessel of a freezing man. She will spite no one for nothing until she only spites herself. She will carry anything to anyone without proper footwear. This woman is her.

The night is reborn in the acts that she wears.

The darkness finds light in the cracks that she bares.

One place to another, she goes on. Remembering the man on the stool as if he had created her. Feeling his song underneath her feet as she lifts herself into the future with each falling step. After apologizing to her friends, she rests her head on something hollow and empty until she can dream herself back to wake.

Three

Two

Step One