Screen

 

Screen

 

She, who raises a hand

is the flower blossom on the stalk,

rather than on another flower.

She, who only wants to talk

has not bloomed, and is still small,

so, how is it that her petals fall?

She, whose questions float

on air leaving cool vapour trails

dissipates in your hot fumes.

She, who has not yet power,

one day will make herself heard,

leaving your empty memories

and wasting words.

She, who is alone before you,

a notification left unread,

an unclosed tab you left for dead,

a lesson that remains unsaid.

 

She, who sits behind her screen,

is the lost within the drowning dream,

swiping up, swiping down.

She, who must forever squat

sedentary, slowly piling pounds,

cannot retain what she forgot.

She, with windows on worlds,

is ignoring the baying of her girls

left here to be charged.

She, who has always depended

on the kindness of others,

is buried deep beneath her covers

and has only ever pretended.

She, who has neglected

to wipe memory, close windows,

upon shells imprints dull shadows

that only ever cling to limbo.