Women

A woman standing on window by herself

stare up the sky, she imagine little girl, now

turned to star, sniffing at the aged body of her own.

The body that is pale and aching, body no longer

remember her own shadow.

Home is what she call a giant box of cement

that opens occasionally for her to breathe.

She stand and marvel at all she is praised for

the nods of appreciation and pat of commendation

when she broke her neck to every expectation and

shattered her guts to silence amidst howl of all

she should have carried before succumbing

at last, however unfortunate state of her bones.

She remember no more the girl that smiled for herself

cried for herself, she no longer recognize that pigtail

artistically woven with the colored bands or

the voice that once demanded for the crayons

she built her world with.

Now she stand on the window of her home

that belong to someone else, she recall her

past home, that never was hers.

There is another woman in the house

She is younger and ungainly, who took

the graceful angst of house and deciphered it

to what it was, a gear to hold her down.

She woke up to her mother's dreadful eyes

And heard of the time they both were same age.

She lived double her life,

From her mother's childhood to her own death.

She saw two women grow old,

One who shed her flesh for corner in the hall,

Another thawed her wits to not repeat same tale.