She stares at the glass,

her focus avoiding the outside elements,

as if it will respond

to her disconsolate eyes,

flooded.

The painful liquid,

a product of the body’s own operation,

each drop stinging like a honeybee.

Delicate hairs stand, 

hanging onto her eyelids,

forcing life upon themselves.

The corners of her cracked, withered lips,

slowly rising toward her ears,

but not to their full potential.

The feeling is unfamiliar.

It is as if she is coming up for air 

but has already accepted drowning.