Shuddering sadness seeps

slithering out in droplets down my cheeks

Goddammit.

Goddammit.

Running is no substitute for that life you have, Man.

I am left out. Somehow this sort-of tall woman standing

beside so many with their Man.

I lift my Hope up as an offering to the Sky as if a baby swaddled for Baptism.

Grant me the Gift of Everlasting Life, Dear Lord.

Grant me the Gift of Partnership in this World, Dear Lord.

Do not make me stand here before you, with my Hope held up

to you one minute longer

feeling as though the door has long been left open

and a cold, empty
forlorn draft blows through my invisible Beauty.

Copyright by Rachel Drews, 2011. All rights reserved. Any excerpts reproduced from this article should include links to the original.