Self-portrait

Her fingers smell like cigarettes
she's waiting for the day to end
she's waiting for the inky black of sleep

She's fortunate, yet full of fear
she's stacking up the wasted days
to make a wasted year

Somehow still hoping
with that numb and heavy heart 
hoping something good is almost here

She hides away inside her head
feeding demons who promise
they'll keep the world away

But that sense of safety never stays
instead she's given lonely days
and an ever-shrinking window for change
Photo by Wendy van Zyl on Pexels.com

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