She

She never felt like she fit in. She was a jigsaw piece without a puzzle, never completed - never even attempted. She was a lost toy at the bottom of a box, not touched since the move as the kids were too old. She was the skin on top of the milk, thrown away before the beverage was consumed - disgusting to all that encountered her. She was never appreciated, but unlike a forgotten work of art from a niche era, she never would be. She was the last breath taken at the end of a day, before the clock struck twelve and a new one began, not even noticed - foiled by slumber and replaced before consciousness. She was a broken glass, damaged and useless, kept in the cupboard to be grabbed but resented, scoffed at for her ineptitude and abandoned once more. She was a story without an ending. A narrative with no beginning. A trend that never caught on, or even began. A star without a glimmer. A cloud without any rain. A nothing. A loser. A ghost floating through life.

She was a child of no home and she stayed that way. Never finding a salvation in the arms of another. Never finding a purpose among the attempted feats. Lost in the throng of existence she couldn't bear the maze, the entwining of paths she could not follow. That was the way she stayed, from her start to her end. The end that would appear to have come too soon to anyone but her, but could not have come soon enough from where she lay.

Not even abandoned as she never was held. Not even rejected as she never offered the chance. Not even forgotten as not quite remembered. Not ever the victor. Not ever a pro.

She held on to the hope of a future for as long as she could, but it disappeared as she realized she was barely alive.

She was a poet of sorts, an artist of kinds. Forging the picture of a life she did not understand.

And then, as insignificantly as she was here; she was gone.