A certain blindness

I had dismissed the hope

that had brightened the morning curtains

because the despair

had tasted sweeter

on my gilded pages-

And if my lament

is tender enough

wouldn't someone else

sing back my cries?

But, my suffering

isn't a philosophy-

it isn't an aethestic.

It's a raw wound

that frustrates 

and frightens

the Tenders 

of its constant bleeding.

I'm not even a girl,

but in fact a woman.

There was an ordinary warmth

in today's meals.

Fresh laundry.

The babyish mewling of a cat. 

I like to dismiss the fact

that actually

I am alive.