what she writes.

she wrote about concerns,
issues in general.
she wrote what she thought
when she thought it.
maybe it wasn't quite eloquent enough,
but it was her.

she wrote about piecing things together
after you smashed them up.
she bought it all broken,
but she's gonna fix it.
it may not be logical in anybody else's eyes,
but she thought it was good.

she wrote about her bad decisions,
even when she still thought they were right.
and she wrote about the darkness,
when she felt it.
maybe it was overdramatic,
but it was her.

she wrote herself fictions,
for reality was lost on her.
she wrote about wishes,
her hopes and her dreams.
everything cryptic and distinguishable
only by her.
And for a good reason, only by her.

she writes about disaster
and she writes about running away from it.
she writes to them, but the letters don't send.
and she writes to herself
because nobody else will.

she will write about her life one day,
she can write about her dreams.
the ones that came true,
the ones that someone stole,
the wishes that she'd had
and the people that she'd known.

and she will think,
when she can write no more,
about why it all happened.
perhaps her words will tell you,
or maybe they will remain
as clearly as the truth before.

--MRS 2/20/07