There is a great emptiness
In the pit of her belly
Vacancy on her innermost shelf
She is without the things that would mature her wholly
Food and the touch of a man.
All night she sits with her back to the small empty bed
And her face to the light of a screen
Fingers navigating the letters
To penetrate young hearts of foreigners
And bring smiles to their faces with the tales of her dreams.
Before long the night is over
And she looks at herself in the morning-lit mirror
And sees a skinny small odd looking thing
Dripping in the weakness her youth seems to bring.
She knows of what she would like a taste:
Prominence, experience, and a bit of grace
but she knows not if she should trust time
…or seize real-life exploit by her own device.