twist

she does her best
to bend her brain
contort her perception

into something approaching
a shape that could make this
close to acceptable

the days pile up
into nothing but this
and this is less every day

but she repeatedly finds a light
when she wakes to see the results
of a two a m snowfall

the cold sterile perfection
outside her freezing window
gives her something to strive for

and all the mental gymnastics 
could never amount
to those moments

the slide

most nights
she’s perfectly content
to fold in on herself
swallow herself
negate herself

perhaps content 
is the wrong word
but that perpetual cycle
of denying all inside
is nothing if not
familiar
which seems almost
comfortable

she’d draw the blinds
if they were ever open
she’d turn off the phone
but no one ever calls

it’s all darkness
it’s all hopeless
and she’s seen it all before

she once pretended that
when the others’ sun came
when she opened her eyes
things would look different
but she’s grown too old and tired
for such childish fantasies

she’d punch a wall in frustration
but what would that change

she’s beginning to lose her grip
on the difference between 
day and night
and she’s knows it

but she’s not sure
it really matters

pull

she finds herself wondering
what is all this
is this really what it is
it certainly can’t be
all there is

she finds herself 
thinking these things
and dreaming of some kind of
hopeful obsession
that will take her
away from all of this
longing and low grade dullness
the swimming persistent nagging
of something more
something perpetually out of reach

something to pull her out
and keep her out