She was sure she could remember being a woman of substance
Quite recently in fact
But now she couldn’t remember how
The last few months of worry had taken their toll
Left her insides dessicated
And somewhere they had fallen out
She was sure she’d had resilience,
She had had fight
But now she was only sore
Her emptied insides sparking with the last few dusty iron filings
That scratched as she scraped around in search of herself
Nevertheless she lifted her tired bones
Perhaps,
She hoped,
Those shrivelled bits of herself would offer themselves up
Like a trail of breadcrumbs
Back
Or perhaps there was a reason that they had decayed
Rotted down through lack of honest care, respect and attention
She had looked to others for this in the past
Perhaps that was her biggest mistake
But this mulch of past expectation
Of dashed hopes and dead dreams
Made for a dark but well prepared
Compost of experience that might allow new insides to grow
She rose up with this hollow frame
Filled it with breath and a statement of intent
Then a golem of her own making
Tried to stoke the fire in her belly
Even as it was only embers
To baptise those dormant seeds inside with a fire of her own making
And shuddered on
Hopefully to recovery
And on to better things
