Reluctance radiates from her
curved spine and trembling limbs.
They all can see her nerves
sitting comfortably
on her shoulders,
whispering sour melodies of inadequacy and failures she may never experience,
but already owns the scars from.
She’s quiet, they say
to each other, but
never ask her why.
If she could, she would
recite the constant aria
that she hears behind her ears.
But her anxiety pins
her mouth shut,
and expects her hold it all in.
She’s distant, they say
to each other, but
never come to her.
Her mind wanders and she wonders
how she can continue.
She cries alone, wishing
someone would somehow know.
But–
One day,
she will be able
to steady herself,
she will roll her shoulders back,
and stand tall.
One day,
she will be able
to unfasten her lips,
and bandage her wounds.
One day,
she will.
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