That One.

That girl talking
To herself
In a room full of strangers
Making strange faces
Because she must not
See herself the way she should
See herself.
That girl walking
Into empty rooms
Somehow never alone,
The company she keeps
Is always by herself,
Yet always on display
As if followed by a crowd
Of other selves: self-directed
Automatons.
That girl thinking –
Always thinking –
The endless chatter
Relentless as time
Shattering any intrusion,
Her subject may always
Change on a dime,
And she’s never really listening
To things she rathern’t hear.
That girl singing
Songs she doesn’t really know,
Words she forgot to remember,
She talks to the chairs
She stumbles into
As if she likes them more
Than other people
Because a chair never let her down
Unlike all the other people
Talking to themselves
Always on display
Absorbed by their own chatter
Enthralled by their own singing.
That girl waiting
For something that may never come,
Something she invented,
Something none will ever fully
Measure up to
Even though no actual boundaries
Do define or confine
What she imagines will be;
Amorphous blob of
Self-predictive pleasure
Failing to exist outside of
Her expansive imagination
Like all others who failed
And fell
Before her
Still clinging to hope
Like a single rose
Or half-drawn sword.
That girl choosing
To cohabitate with a daydream
Rather than settle for
Paper soldiers and
Meaningless words carried
On the backs of her children.
That girl holding
Herself and all of her dreams
And nightmares
Close like her favorite stuffies
Long fallen on the floor
Of childhood’s bedroom,
Where parents preparing to die
Before her life would begin,
Protectively snoring across the hall,
Slept on.
That one.

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