The skin of her fingers is scorned
With memories that turn out to be mine.
How can they watch the act of letting go
And not believe it's so easy to do?
At the heart of everything, I will believe
The mirror will answer her in truth.
The lackluster face of an invaluable woman
Stares backwards, never forwards.
She ruins, and ruins, and ruins.
Nothing is hers to keep, so she finds it easy
To cast it all aside.
Money is meaningless, relationships dim at best.
She keeps the hunger around for its familiarity,
While her fingers dig themselves in a grave.
She will never be able to advocate
For anyone else.
She will never be able to convey that
Her affliction embedded.
Heavy is the crown fashioned with iron and tears,
Disappointment and regret.
There is no love in self sabotage.
There is no love at all.
E.