That Picture of That One Lady

I am quiet, though I should not be.

I am the searing sun, beating down on the dirt, baking away whatever coolness resides underneath.

I am the flawed stitching that holds lank fabric, blowing in the afternoon breeze.

I am the anger of injustice.

I am the grinding of an already stripped joint.

I am the adoring look in my children’s eyes.

I am hurt when they are.

I am screaming to deaf ears.

I am hurt, bitter, tired, and sick.