A woman sits, hunched over
In silence
Methodically picking at her eggs
Fried, with bacon and white toast
Extra butter
Hair falling over eyes
As she peered up from beneath
The mask, which so diligently covered
Her scars
Only long enough to nod at the waitress
Refilling the cooling coffee cup
Black, no sugar
One would barley notice the slight smile on her lips
Attempting kind eyes and an open heart
Though her hands are closed tightly
Around her cup
Knuckles white, as if gripping the last hopes of life
Before they slip away into the cold snowy night
Alone, the torn leather of the booth swallows her
She shrinks inside
As everyone whispers
About what she is trying to hide
The little old diner writes her name
Knows her well
The way she sits with stories
Buried deep within
Like the words written
Between well worn pages
Life’s most decadent truth
And desperate lies
Hunched in the shallow
Though she knows of the deep
She has been there
A long time now
So today she waits it out
In the booth, alone
Gripping a cooling coffee cup
I am that woman
she is the world
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