She/ Her

Black screen.
a distant ring of light turns,
no music yet… just air, and dust, and burn.

She stands there still—
not lost on the road,
but knowing every path will fold,
feel the same, take the same old load.

Messy hair, back to frame;
pencil clenched—she can name the flame.

Bare feet in wind, field too wide.
camera circles—softly—closing in,
as if the world can’t decide.

Down the hall, children laugh in waves.
outside, TV speaks in tidy graves:
explosions, bodies, anchors cool, clean—
plastic burn in the air.
she sits quiet on the sofa’s seam;
stale detergent, skin, and dust—
a calm-faced storm, eyes tangled unseen.

“I’m fine—thank you—how are you.”
Like law.

Watched it all, couldn’t name the sense;
rules built from crooked evidence.
Tried them on—
gestures, replies,
half-forced to fit, half-taught to compromise;
each “normal” felt like borrowed skin.
more she blended, less she lived within.

First lesson wasn’t speech.
it was watching—
listening till silence starts to leak.

Second lesson: hiding plain sight;
drawing under blankets, flashlight night.
warm lint, trapped air—
’art’—a dream that can’t pay rent,
so silence became environment.

“I’m fine—thank you—how are you.”
Like love.

Seen the red—iron in her mouth.
people stepping through,
not looking back at what they walked right into.

No raised voice.
no chase, no push.
learned to turn her head:
perfect timing, hold the hush.

“I’m fine—thank you—how are you.”
Like glue.

Not fire—
won’t let herself go out;
keeps one spark beneath doubt.

Not above it, not beyond it, not loud—
breathing through black somehow.

Not fire—
a light that won’t resign;
thread pulled tight against night.

This isn’t hope, it’s something raw:
just decided—
she wants more time.

Cut fast.
a verdict torn in half;
a crowd that cheers like cruelty can laugh.

Door shuts hard, someone turns away.
test erased, rewritten for display.

College form, “safe” designed route;
life compressed by settled doubt.
didn’t know the shape of choice,
mistook obedience for voice.

“I’m fine—thank you—how are you.”
Like God.

Till nothing left to prove.

Made herself agreeable, neat, small—
still wrong, still not home at all.

Top-down shot:
half-shadow, half-clear skin.
camera slows, world turns thin.

Each “yes” was never built on faith;
it wasn’t what she loved…
it was what she wouldn’t become,
what she refused to imitate.

“I’m fine—thank you—how are you.”
Like truth.

Picture stops.
head bowed. No sound.
words appear—ink bleeding ground.

Not fire—
tried not to fade.
her answer:
“I’m not done. Not today.”

Single room, fan turns too slow;
air tasting like dust.
stares at ceilings—blank-white show.
thoughts run past like trains she can’t ride.
shows little;
goes inside.

Hasn’t left—only disappeared,
folded in a drawer where no one hears;
lived awhile not as human being:
a function,
built for doing, not feeling.

“I’m fine—thank you—how are you.”
Like air.

Drifted far;
returned an aging cat.
no tears… hands trained not to look back.

Foreign couch, language she can’t hold;
cigarette ghosts in fabric.
ex’s text unopened, then re-closed.
no compass rose, no clean escape—
came home, faced the shape.

“I’m fine—thank you—how are you.”
Like blood.

Black screen.
lamplight on a page—
paper-dry, graphite sharp.

Bows her head—entering a stage.
the camera comes close;
her fingers, slow,
pencil moving, metronome.

No one makes her do it, but she must—
not to prove anything,
to come back to herself.

If she stays still, noise will feast;
voices in her mind become a beast.
knows loss too well, how it stings,
so she says goodbye to what she holds close.

All gifts carry seeds of gone—
not cold, not numb;
grieving early, moving on.

Rain-soaked road, countryside blur;
wet asphalt breath.
distant mountains breathing gray, blurred.
No music—
only footsteps, soft and near.

Walks, gathers time like broken gear:
a glance, a scar, a shadow, something small—
a face she thought she didn’t have at all.

Wall of drawings, notes, thread;
handmade timeline pinned like quiet bread.
dreams taped up, transparent trembling glue—
not perfect,
but finally something true.

Starts to build—not castles for a king;
structures where her lungs can fit to sing.
not flawless, not polished, not approved—
space enough to breathe:
call it freedom, call it room.

Back where she stood, opening frame—
wind no longer calling her name.

Not the only motion anymore:
work she made,
text she wrote,
shelter on the floor.

Turns her head—
not staring, not running away,
caught in one second, one stray.

Understands how worlds are run:
commands disguised as “just for fun,”
choices lined like traps you never see,
fairness built for showroom sympathy.

Doesn’t burn it down.
doesn’t scream.

Threads logic through the seam—
line by line, clean syntax, nothing loud;
compatible, invisible, unbowed.

“I’m fine—thank you—how are you.”
Till she wasn’t there.

No one knows she touched underneath.
pencil tip pauses—
a click in the quiet.

somewhere in the code,
something starts to breathe.

Fade out.