The broken woman
wears a suit of armor.
It sheathes her body with plates
of soft steel.
They whisper when she turns her wrist,
when she arches her neck, when
she opens her mouth.
Her laugh breaks apart when it hits
the metal wall of her chest
so you cannot hear
the desperation in the sound.
It fragments in fear, and
only the echoes escape her casing.
The broken woman sleeps
in her armor.
It slides against the sheets
and magnifies her moans.
Those breathy whimpers bounce on the
barren walls of her empty room.
Her armor appears fragile –
a delicate shell of silk and perfume.
Life's troubles seem to find each chink.
But there is great genius in it.
Try to touch that smooth shield
and you will see it crumble in your hands.
As the dust dissipates, you find the woman gone.