What Else is True

She wears barren soil
where cheeks would be.
She would rather not smile today.
Not because she is sad,
but because. Battle is never the word
she would choose, but it suits her,
it points to the landmines and barricades
and the way that no one wins.
She might tell you the truth,
if she knew it. She’d prefer
to not speak at all. She wears
ash in her hair. Her face
is soft putty. There are muddy
rivers that churn in her shawl.
Behind her, the air is black,
and if you could pull back her skin
you would find that she bleeds in gray
in the way women do when
they think that no one can see.
She knows she is easily crushed.
She knows she wants too much.
On the rim of the well, she battles
thirst. Enough, Enough. Not
enough.

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