She sits on a cold stone step.
Talking to herself because there’s no one else to hear.
Looking at a face in her compact that she doesn’t recognise, that no one sees –
And if no one sees, how could you ever disappear?
She wears a pink cable-knit sweater,
Tattered and frayed. Back to front, inside out.
But there’s no one there to tell her,
And no reason or occasion to care about.
She views the world behind pink-tinted sunglasses,
Bewildered eyes widening on all she sees.
When did she cease to belong here,
Why does her heart still lurch overseas?
She bites her fingernails down to the point of bleeding,
But there’s no one there to suggest that she stop.
What does it matter if they’re shredded raw?
He drained her dry of blood when he left. Every last drop.
Her passport says that she is Spanish,
And her words betray the same.
But her heart says she is not of this world,
Just his, to be reclaimed.



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