Departed

When the Sun is hot in the sky,
the clouds many
and the feelings heady enough to make a woman
want to tie a small noose around the brain
just to restrain it from the disdain for
the process of thought, for those who make her digest all that is
change again and again as if it is her only meal
while she
only ever tries,
despite ties that seem intentionally irritating,
to see the good in each person,
to tenderly toy out their quirks and their uniqueness with a love and lust for every part
but it always starts like that -
this woman meeting a lover
and smothering herself in all that is grand about them
while they make a plan for the adapting of her spirit
to better fit in with their internet based plans of the minute,
and it grows weary
until she walks,
until the talks have ended
because she's given enough of her time and her honesty and her soul,
she's grown old with it,
tired with it,
bored with it.
The woman is encased in a hard shell that will not melt with it.
The woman changes course, of her own accord, like a ship
departing without the crew,
one lone pirate screaming aloud, at life,
a profanity that echoes across the rippling salt water
and will not falter with every repeat,
until it depletes and she is left in the quiet of her mind
to replenish it with the honest things, the perfect, the true,
the imperfections that once needed perfection to the few.
She sleeps for an hour or two,
and when she wakes she does not think of them again.