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M.J. Robinson is a writer of poetry
and short fiction living in
By M.J. Robinson
She lies on the bed, expectant and waiting,
hopeful that soon she will have the company she craves.
For she cannot bear to be alone.
Flat and passive, her back does not support her
and her right foot was lost long ago in a fire.
Once rosy cheeks are faded and greying
while a wrinkle on her forehead has been highlighted with crayon.
A cruel act, it cannot be washed away.
Blonde hair has long since been barbered,
while her blue and white tunic, once a glory, is now in tatters.
A tear at the seam exposes mutilation within.
She thinks of happiness, of a pink house with a balcony,
cosy and warm, made especially for her.
She remembers love, what it was to be cherished.
Everything looks the same, but somehow, there has been change.
She suspects she may have been left behind.
She lies there motionless,
denied the comfort of crying.