She wore her scars to show
she was a soldier,
a soldier used to knives;
the beatings that she bore
were bundled deep inside
Nothing had convinced her that
the universe was nameless,
but she was cursed from birth
with constant need for meaning
ratified in sleep where phantom
figures made her understand,
God often spoke in strangers voices
hid behind their sleight of hand.

Her high heeled misdemeanours
broke the tension of existence
a will to shine so bright the tears
would never be counted,
and she courted city streets,
befriended urban outcasts
listened to other peoples families
carefully repressing swell of tidal grief
It was only in the third person that
she could talk about these things
listen to the moaning of police sirens,
the shriek of three year old from
paper thin communicating walls,
hug her own children to her chest
in order to forget,

she remembered.