She is One, But not Alone

Just who she is; be it a mystery?
Or perhaps one plain, as simple as would seem.
She sheds tears, and shows delight
She’s screeched in anger, and cowered in fright
She’s ached for hope, and shunned the light
An honest liar, a broken piece as you might

She envies
She wishes
She hungers
She waits

Sometimes she dares
To let herself believe
And yet others she lives
Curling in shadow,
Slipping apart at the seams

She shies from others
Their voices, her pain
Yet craves their company
Without hurt is no gain

Never the best
Yet not quite the worst
She looks at the world
And doesn’t know what she sees
She is torn, her pieces fled
Scattered by this life’s cruel wind
Confusion, is what often wraps about her
Doubt tucked close beside

She envies, yet admires
She wishes, yet snuffs the spark of hope
She wants, but won’t dare reach
She waits; because it’s what she’s left to do.

And as for the who?
Why, she is no one,
Merely one more face
Meant to live, to feel to die.
She is only one
As are we all.