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For C.C.

Her hair a messy, dark auburn.

Bangs frame diamond shaped face,

glasses rest on tanned,

strong bridge of nose and

lips lay atop each other,

a soft permanent frown.

She walks tall, she’s been through hell, a clear

cliche but hasn’t every

writer? Self esteem high,

she commands the respect from others

as soon as heels tap into a room. She is brilliant,

a fallacy unproven by dwindling

GPA. Well-versed in literature and dealing

with families that don’t care,

Mother tells her, Speak up, we can’t hear you.

She writes of life in every form

death, sex and love,

relationships formed,

broken. She drank in sleep and pale sunlight.

Jokes about her love, her family, they

leave her lips laced with laughter

but traces of a bruised psyche

drip down her chin like the bitter

black coffee she sips.

We know its reek, we know the dying

she burdens the air with.

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