Conversations With Herself

I see her walking down the street,

Rambling on of how she has no shower now

That ‘he’ once let her use.

Carrying a metal rod I

Can only assume why

With this imagination,

That could be anything.

But that is not what matters

As I watch her walk in haste,

Down the street lit by the lamps,

So dim

And at her wits end.

Insane it seems

But I see freedom in her bones

As she breaks free

To a cycle she has yet to face.

Where will she go? I wonder.

And I envy the steps she takes.

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