Late in the Game

she's still sick.
thousands in therapy.
decades on the long
couch.
self help books,
years and years
of closed doors and
disorders. flushing toilets.
running sinks.
water water water.
laxatives, starvation.
lying, hiding, secrets.
eating less and less.
melting
away like the wicked witch
of the east or west.
her phone is filled to
the max. she saves every
heartbreaking call.
every shred of her life
is documented and saved,
giving meaning to
the meaningless.

she won't pick up.
no contact serves her
well. it's too late.
she's a walking train
wreck.
a wrecking ball of pain
to those around her.
crushing the foundation
of others.

a mystery without a
clue, a rebel with
no cause. at this late
stage in life,
she can't be helped.
she's forever doomed.
lost in her own
dysfunctional world
of sickness and gloom.
no one really knowing
who she is or was or
will be. she doesn't
know herself from day
to day, hour to hour,
pretending to be well
and healthy,
when everyone knows
she's stuck inside
her own living hell.