She sat.
Morose.
Petulant.
Like a small child though a woman grown.
Gnawing on a pen waiting for her to speak.
To begin to explain the sick desires and their beginnings.
She is nothing like any other patient here.
Days she is docile.
Days she rages and is violent.
To herself.
To others.
Eyes.
Cold emerald gaze when she levels it.
A sense of being weighed, counted and set in proper place takes seconds.
Aquiline nose takes from utter beauty.
Lips ruby red lush silken ready to be kissed.
Thick ombre hair cascades over shoulders twisted between slim fingers.
Sat as she is one could take her for adolescent.
Once stood there is no denial that she is woman.
All woman.
Slender build.
Breasts perfectly rounded.
Pert.
Hips curved softly.
The perfect figure.
Hourglass.
Time ticks seconds off.
Loud in this silence.
Shift.
Her head turns.
Leveling cold gaze over mine to the clock over the door.
Subtle change.
As time for her draws near.
Time to return.
Back to ancient cell.
Shrinking.
Drawing within.
Hair tumbles covering face.
Her demeanor
so sure
so controlled
becomes less
sure
becomes less
defiant
I see the child emerge just as the door clicks.
How was she today Doc?
The same.
Quiet.
Pensive.
One day she will speak.
You never know Doc…..
that one there
she carries dark secrets…..
secrets that would eat your soul.
Glittering rage
simmering
palpable
taken wrong
she waits
she knows
one day soon
will come the shit show.
©Dec. 19/20
Picture via Pinterest
The Wonderful and Wacky World of One Single Mom 