Blinds

The window detects the pain, but the blinds seal out the world.

My mask shields the hatred from on-lookers.

I feel the sun burning my skin, but I have yet to move.

My feet are tired, and my heart ceases to love.

My eyes wither like dying roses.

Hands are debilitated, and body dull.

Breasts tender to the milking of the child.

I have yet to live, and never shall.

The window remains open, but the blinds have fastened tighter.

Will I ever become?

Copy Right Erin Birtwistle 1997