as life orchestrates.
she scrubs wooden floors.
tempestuous twins flag her wits.
she makes her bed, sparing formality.
at every passing, the days grow thinner.
she hides her belongings in the haunted attic.
in remembrance, she thanks her mother for her fury.
a minor comedy, she thinks, how these girls blush juvenile.
she rebuffs the hand on her thigh, trying to persuade otherwise.
overnight, the red vanishes from her hair, the rouge from her face.
she takes this misspent trust and nests it deep in her famished spirit.