The Artist

Lily Gold

She stalks her prey like a hawk in the night

Encircling it until it cowers under her power

She twitches

This is not the moment, she says

This is not the one

And like that she retreats to the comforts of her house

Where her husband waits under warm sheets to inhale her

She is tense

All that fills her head are the failures she has acquired over the years

Small mementos of marriage, jobs, children that won’t let her escape the past and see the future

She is so bogged down by her nightmares and constant darkness that surrounds her

Can she pull herself out of this?

Is this just a phase like last time?

Will she be a failure?

And slowly, almost invisible to the human eye, a piece of her dies

She no longer carries the zeal and robust sense of confidence

Her mind withers away until it is non-existent