I Wasn’t Poor, I Was Po’ – I Couldn’t Afford the ‘o-r’

She cries herself to sleep at night knowing that not one soul cares that she is crying, or if she sleeps at all. Her mascara diluted with fear, anguish and loneliness. Her tears waterfall through the rustic oak flooring and tangos with her dreams. The sleep numbs the pain while the fleeting flickering light comforts her until the fluttering of the flickering flame takes flight and flees. Darkness is syringed through her veins leaving her isolated and alone.