She smells like cinnamon
Her teeth neatly
Crooked
Her walk is slow
And muffled
She reminds me of
An injured bird
Oblivious of her
Wings
Her skin is brown
Like mine
Her hair is black
Pulled back
I want her to yell
But doubt that she can
Silence begets silence
She is so
Quiet
And still
Like a sloth
She crawls
Timid
She looks
As she steps
Into her gown
Of uncertainty
Waiting for
A mat
For the night
A commercial
