There comes a time in every woman's life when boys are toys and the joys of severance debilitate the headless. Count them: reasons to stay, reasons to change, reasons to give, and reasons to save something, anything, just enough, for that last frightening flight from the scene.
All of my friends have gone soft in the head. We are what we've hated and there's no body left. Alone and elated with our lackluster eyes, we run and we run and we still act surprised. We used to be but now we're just used to it. Jealous of fighting off our reasons to heal. Ignoring the obvious is killing our fear. Without a torment to oppose the norm, we are just currents in a sedated storm. Now that the future is assuming it's place, the yearbook retains only one saving grace, painted like the devil's red and wicked face, a record of agelessness that captures our rage.