Her lines been ringing, but the connection’s broken.
She’s become disjointed perhaps?
Caught amongst the slowest part of your shadow.
Somewhere in between,
The tenets of who she is, and who she was.
What she use to love, and what she chooses to love now.
It’s like the wind spitting dust in her eyes,
As if it were an angry toddler wanting juice.
But she told him no,
Her heart screamed no.
Yet, she would give him so much if she could.
Except she cant.
She’s a different kind of woman.
She’s shed her skin a little more each time,
Like the Malayan Krait.
And each time, she lost herself a litte more,
To the slowest parts of her shadows.