Not an Avalanche

She is all but an avalanche. 

She withers away, a messed-up-f*****g-shell of 

lint and spilled coffee stains dripping down her father's sweater. 

Sometimes, she wishes the circles on her thighs would grow,

grow, and grow and grow and grow, she thinks,

the world might make more sense if only the spaces in her mind

knew how to build the f*****g bridges.