Could be worse

 

The clock strikes midnight at the old sleepy house,

Twelve little strikes and the silence falls again on the floor

Letting all go array, letting all fall asleep for once more.

In the corner of the locked room sits the young lady,

Her white, cold knees pressed hard into her lovely chest,

Her eyes a canvas for salty tears,

And her lips, a paintbrush to her unmoved body.

I know what you wish, my darling angel.

A kiss on the cheek and a chest to lean into…

I know the loneliness you carry,

But there’s nothing worse than what I live.