Slouching, she struggles to look up, head hung low. The pain across her shoulder blades is excruciating. Then there’s the voices that just won’t die down.
She is trapped in a corner, and with the shadow towering over her now feeble frame, she feels the weight even more. She can’t get up. She tries to move but is paralised.
Tears run down her face. You would think she’d have no more to shed, but still they flow, burning a deep groove on her once fleshy cheeks. But she can’t let them see.
She doesn’t know how to explain them.
“What do I do now?” she seems to be stuck on that.
All she wants is a little light. Just enough to illuminate the path.
All she craves is a gentle whisper to soothe her aching heart.
What she aches for? To be safe. In all her impurity to still be accepted.
Is it she who knows not how to love? She gave her heart as is, with all its wear and tear. All its light and love. She wants it not back, its right where it needs to be.
She is no angel. Her imperfection seems to work against her. Driving away when all she wants is to be held. Shutting her out when what she yearns for is to be let in.
The shadow won’t budge. She tries to look up crying out in agony for help but no one seems to hear her.