But it’s not coming,
At least not the elusive missing piece,
The part of the puzzle she has become convinced
That if she just found
Could mould her into this space she occupies,
The antidote to all that makes her weak and feeble;
A flag stone of perfection cemented against her own imperfection
To keep her standing in years to come.
Instead she shuffles,
Room to room,
The empty search in the empty house
Made so because she has thrown out the contents
Ashamed of the light they cast her in;
Wicked and cruel.
Nothing she owned was ever enough,
Instead she chose to float in the shallows
With nothing in her hands but a lie.