Damage

The summer heat was like death in her lungs. 

Damage knew the dry suffocation 

would be the end of her dreams.

This threat was real. 

Beautiful that she was

her faith was weak

her emotions too real. 

Her reflection created unbearable pain. 

It was as if there was no room

to creep forward or backward 

but her soul felt the pressure to break free.

Movement was her only hope, 

her only outlet to allow for survival. 

At any cost this was the achievable goal.

Damage would tell herself, 

move from the couch to the bed. 

Move from the bed to the kitchen. 

Rinse and repeat.

Pray and repeat.

Weep and repeat...

The passage of time moved Damage

out of one house, into another 

and another and another. 

Her family still had the dirt of the road 

on their shoes and yet

she still had an insatiable need to move.

Further, faster, without end