Rubble

Sometimes, she sleeps under heavy sheets of guilt. Sometimes, she is full of regret. Sometimes, she talks to the emptiness in her room. The foetal position offers no reprieve for her pain. No quick fix for her cramped up thoughts. 

Her arms hurt and her legs feel stubbier everyday. She walks through her day knowing someone will make fun of her. Someone will tell her that there is no place for her in this seemingly perfect world.

She lives in an awkward bubble where her thoughts chase each other at a blinding speed. Her bubble is black and murky and her feelings are wrapped up in old newspapers. There is almost always an unbearable stench of feet. 

She is everything that she shouldn’t be.  She is everything that the world creates when it is high and angry. Sometimes she is running through long streets of people chasing her and sometimes she is cowering behind the deafening sound of fear. 

She is plain and striped down. No colour will ever be her colour, no man will ever hold the small of her back tenderly. Her planner is empty and her food sits on the plate or makes a reappearance in the bathroom before she sleeps.

She is everything we look down upon. She is everything we pity. 

In the beige workplace, she shows herself into a corner and ducks behind stacks of peeling paper files. She is a drying wall flower. Day after day, her work gets done but nobody knows who is doing it. She is everyone you walk past at office cafeteria and everyone you ignore in the elevator. 

She walks on egg shells all the time, hoping to never get noticed. She cries silently and laughs inside her head. 

She is both, what we mock on good days and become on bad ones.