Transition Period

Curly, dirty blonde hair
Hanging in locks over her freckled face
Feet curled up underneath her on the bed
Or in a chair
Writing furiously
As words drip from her like tears
With cold, pale hands
And fingernails bitten short
Writing with a black pen,
now purple, now blue
Her red-brimmed green eyes
Hiding behind her glasses

A silver spider necklace hangs down
On a delicate chain, she subconsciously touches it
Fingers brushing her protruding collarbone
She worries about her image
And touches the bruises, the scratches
On her arms from work
She thinks about her ex
She cries a little more

Driving home from work,
She flips through her CD's
Looking for the right one,
but feeling the indifference
Later she changes into her dragon wrap-skirt
Remembering a dream she had the other night
And a pale tank top
She slips on her worn, brown sandals
She calls me