nothing really
She isn't really crying under a tree in the woods near her empty house. She doesn't do things like that, truly, it's not like her.
But her broken wrist is curled up to her stomach and she's curled up to herself, only even half awake with exhaustion, and her skin is papery and her nails are brittle and her hair is starting to come out again, and she still has nothing which will balance or pull her together: no point, she'd say, nobody who needs her. No one has needed her in a long time. It takes its toll.
She's getting too tired to be proud.
But her broken wrist is curled up to her stomach and she's curled up to herself, only even half awake with exhaustion, and her skin is papery and her nails are brittle and her hair is starting to come out again, and she still has nothing which will balance or pull her together: no point, she'd say, nobody who needs her. No one has needed her in a long time. It takes its toll.
She's getting too tired to be proud.