she sees the world from the reach of an old woman's arms.
the mind, sharp yet blunting, still capable of some charms.
she remembers the school times, just trying to survive,
thinking to herself, this is being alive?
crawling into her silence, dark quiet womb.
her small chance to escape, in what
was never her room.
then watching herself only in the eyes of
others.
while by lost moments, drowned in
her misguided druthers.
she sees present moments, repeats
of the same.
whatever it foments, she crumbles
at the game.
her old fingers trying, while
struggling to see.
what was and what now is,
what's left of her "me"
