Part three of some free writing, reflective poems
So she sits.
No more does she embody our emotions, recreate the on consciousness like a canvas.
She captured our captivated smiles, celebrations, excitement and anticipation.
The perfect mirror, was it ever more than this?
To us, to her, to make it real?
Her empathy was so innate.
She felt pain from pictures and people close by, perspectives of persecution from passers-by.
But no echo or fine-tuned feelings of her own understanding.
She couldn't comprehend how these two extremes could be held together.
The unfairness of it all and how selfish it seemed; simply wanting to feel.
Simply to feel risk, pleasure, anger or elation.
A vice or a virtue in truly authentic form, unguided — uncontaminated; pure.
Creating her own pain; more tangible than her thoughts, or lack of, lead to misunderstanding, fear and anger from those who claimed to love her.
Convinced she was unable to love.
Us. Her. Anything real.
So she sits