There's a girl sitting on the floor in a dark room somewhere

It is never really dark,
there in the room where the girl
sobs without sound confiding
in a pillow gripped tight
as a person, she is slumped
against the wall in the dark
that she wishes were darker,
wishing less of the world,
wishing the thunderstorms
climbing up the stairs will walk
past her room and the houselights
will not seep under the door.
 
You cannot see the face
of the girl in the dark room,
only that it glistens when
she moves, when she hits her head
against the wall as she sits,
legs in disorder on the floor.
 
After leaning on the wall
her body aches to go from
leaning to lying on the floor,
so she slowly slides to flat
on her back, and she yawns
a precious yawn, and raises
her arms to the ceiling
that is her sky in the room
that is not dark enough,
like a child she stretches
her arms, begs for an embrace
from the god she prays to.
 
A peep of dawn makes silhouettes
of electric posts and distant trees
casting not just light but color,
washing her arms stretched upwards
with a hopeful orange, as she lies
on the floor wanting an embrace.
A small smile is on her now dry face
there on the floor in the room
she earlier wished were darker.