What's Left

Alone,
her skinny frame, frays
against her bed's weight
imposed, and ready
to obliterate
Tangled, her limbs
remain in unusable positions,
leaving her permanent
and sprawled.

Like a newspaper, bent
tragic, stories
hanging on the wind,
She sees herself hung
in the minds of those
who left, and those
who didn't, stalling
by the door of her room
breathing, in hopes she'll soon
be tall again.  

Around her, their cloud
of flies sound, buzzes
of a mirage, gone
between thoughts
and pressing faces –
"Could you just
get up?  Could you just go?"
She hears their words,
answers with "no."

How could she just go?  Lift
out of her skin
and bear newness?  In time
fear will override
all the new things she tries
She'd rather forget
how the future sits
inside her, like a cold hand
shivering between organs.

The clock grins, with the same
knowing grin, but she
won't give in, anymore.
The pressure of all this,
the objects, in shadow form
watch her cower
beneath her covers, hover
over what she hates:
the continuous, breath,

and the expectation
to wait.