"Must we spoon-fed you the truth?"
"Well I can't find it in the dirt beneath my fingernails so I suppose so."
Many stories of travesties and end-of-the-world notations have floated to & fro from town to town. Cigarette smoke causes global warming & her grandmother died of cancer. She never met her grandmother; only post cards from random cities would come each year for her birthday. Her grandmother's birthday, not her own.
There's joy found in the scent in old oil paints & the breeze one may feel as they swing on the tire swing in the garden. They plowed over her garden four years ago.
Crying out to Jesus always sits on the steps of the back porch metaphor that sleeps in her mind but Jesus never came to her as child when she cried out for help so why would he come now?
The first few years of this new year have blurred together. She can't remember specific instances except for the ones where she cried herself to sleep. She thought the sun could cheer her up but the sun is still hiding behind the clouds where Jesus supposedly hides as well.
The world has let her down so now she wants to burn in hell.
She smiles most of the time out of habit but memories haunt her considering they fill each corner of this town. Instances lie within each street sign & the roses that grow in only one place she knows of brings her to her knees.
Nothing & no-one will allow her to forget.
Her heart is aching.