She is a window,
looked through,
as if they are searching
for something beyond.

Screaming on the inside
at the top of her lungs,
she is left to feel as
if she is not enough.

Her words are spoken,
but like a whisper in the wind,
they are never truly heard.

Words left to clutter her mind,
or to fall from her lips to the floor,
to be stepped on and swept away.
She was born and raised in the shadows.
Confined there and resigned to dim her light.
Unseen to all around her.
Yet she existed.
– Mary
January 11, 2016