Dorothy and the Tin Man

“Hearts will never be made practical until they are made unbreakable.”

~The Wizard of Oz

She sits quietly in the corner, twisting her hair… 

watching silvery fish race pointlessly around a polluted tank—

staring slightly slack-jawed, stupefied by the irony of it all—

realizing that there must have been a time when she hadn’t felt so impotent—

retracing the steps that had brought her to this very moment—

questioning the validity of whatever she was [or would have been]—

doubting the choices she’d made and that had made her—

hating the oversimplified structure of the existence she peters out with each shallow breath—

denying that this was all she could be or all there was to see—

dying inside to feel something other than numb—

excusing herself from the responsibility for what she had become—

crying incriminating streams of self-pity—

seeking the exit sign to direct her from this place—

wishing frog princes and glistening knights would pick up the phone if she dialed 911—

knowing that if they did, she would only end up with warts on her lips and aluminum poisoning—

accepting that her life has no more meaning than that of the silvery fish—

believing that, if she were one of them, she’d simply leap from the tank and lie quietly in the corner— 

…breathing herself to death.