She Haunts Me
She’s a wriggling, kicking, fighting artist
but she’ll only create on a whim.
She won’t hold still for a moment to be held
and woe betide those who force a hug on her.
She runs away from the past but
won’t run to the future;
she runs and runs in circles and
points her finger at everyone else,
screaming her hateful blame.
She’s fiercely independent and
a flaming feminist and can’t
control her viperous tongue,
though she wouldn’t care to if she could.
She’s got wide, flashing, dangerous eyes,
blue like the first crushing wave of a tsunami.
Her smile is rare and only used sarcastically,
the thin curve twisted by painful years.
I avoid her gaze when I pass her in the washroom,
but sometimes I forget and glance up—
I fear those wild eyes.
She haunts me, this girl, this monster,
and I wonder if I will ever escape.