she writes French poetry on her bandaids
and drinks tea for breakfast.
Radiohead dances in her blueberry headphones
while the world tries to bring her back into their quiet, quiet world.
nothing pleases her unless it might be French or art and even then she makes it up in her wild garden of a mind.
nothing puts her down
until the day he left
her as empty as the spaces between
her ribs where flowers used to grow.
they used to sing.
but she's still happy alone.
music, tea, art--
how can one be alone with any of them?
who needs them when they won't hurt her? this she knows.
the real pain is out there in the quiet, quiet world.
this she also knows.
here she is safe, but alive. safe, but undone. safe, but on some edge.
safe, but she is loving more than many people could love
in one measly second of trying.
she pretends to speak French and sing well;
she sees angels and she chases demons away with clumsy catastrophe.
she is lonely but in love. she is loved.
in the hours of not dreaming, she sleeps and sees a world as good as hers,
but with a lover and somehow it is better there.
she wonders how that is.
she does not know.
yet she smiles.
there is beauty hidden in the unknown
and it always makes her smile.
-k.p.
February 3rd, 2017
Friday 1:29pm
"No Surprises" Radiohead
