The Literary Phoenix

Funny, the damage a silly little book can do. Especially in the hands of a silly little girl.

Wind softly plays through the grass,
outside her window.
It sings frost into the autumn air
and whispers of snow.

She pulls her knees to her chest
and huddles ‘neath an old blanket.

Four white walls,
the computer’s low hum,
and a black and white cat
(sound asleep)…

she looks around,
but she’s all alone.

With the wind,
she sighs.

The frost enters her lungs,
a plague that chills her veins
and stills her heart.

In her hands she cups
the lonely cupcake,
sweet chocolate frosting
brushed against her thumb.
She inhales the bitter, sweet aroma
of childhood parties,
of sweet sixteen…

she lets it fade away,
erased on the white walls
of her empty apartment.

In a whisper so low,
even thawing strains to hear,
she says:

“Happy birthday,”

and blows
the candle
out.

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