a woman in a room with the half-open door tries plainly to feel at all.
she pushes and prods from her head to the floor,
and when she's finished she is quite apalled.
IS THIS HAPPINESS? this lacking of thought?
or is this simply the absence of a life almost forgot.
maybe it's the sobriety and cleansing, that cleansed her far too much.
maybe THAT is the just cause for this complete loss of touch.

a woman in a room with the door half open, goes to it and pushes it shut
she strips to her skin trying to find an excuse to be in this horrible rut.
she looks down to her thighs, which are quite disappointing,
and to a chest that could be more rewarding.
and she hates EVERYTHING from her butt to her nose to her toes.

but then she looks to her hands, and sees a future with plans
full of music and drawing and words.

a woman in a room with the door shut aquires a feeling of hope.
with that feeling there she's no longer scared
and opens the door and walks straight right out.