Maybe I try so hard to help her become an artist because I was too scared to become one myself.

I watch as the hours of work dwindle to nothing for her and understand how she has to prepare cheap home meals to make ends meet. She's thinking about becoming a waitress, and I plead her to find ways to get paid doing design. But she tells me, "I have to survive."

"Would you like something to drink?" she'll ask them, then return, placing glasses onto tabletops with a masterful hand.

My stomach is turning and turning. Why does the universe allow people like her to win? There's something eerie that clouds this place.

a midnight tear
for your fear
and indecision
and how they may
drive me
to one morning
wake up
in my own bed
knowing that I can
never
climb back
into yours