Little Girl.

You are covered in the ashes of thirty years burned. You drown out the sound of your life spiraling down and you mourn the loss of yourself. You wake up with dreams tinged in horror and strain for the sound of delight. There are no bidders in the market of wallow and the spaces of joy are all filled. So here you stand in your dress and your ashes, your eyes the same color as your skin, waiting for someone to notice or want you, praying for life to begin.