Her crucifixion was a private event,

just beneath her favorite sweater and moisturizer,

walking around the world so tightly nailed to her old ideas

about what’s required to be worthy.

Lamenting how callous is life,

with its tragedies far and wide,

while secretly mourning at her own grave,

watering her own flowers with just the tiniest drips of attention she had left for such things.

Beneath the acne and the ocular,

and the slow and steady extinguish,

she considered again

trading her doubt for an allegiance to eternity,

just in case she finds out at last

someone has been waiting to welcome her.

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