the window latch rattles tentatively upon the hilt.

she looks towards the porthole- questioning.


the room is cluttered and dusty,

stacks of paper litter the floor

untouched and unread.

She reaches out to clear some of the mess and trips…


when she was a little girl

her father used to lift her up

out of herself

and into his storm

and after a while she just learned to let go

it was so much easier just giving in


go on, take everything

Take everything

I want you to


the room is stuffy, suffocating, she feels infested by the mess,

she opens her mouth to scream but no sound comes out, futile but….

the window latch rattles temptingly upon the catch…

and what does all this junk matter anyway? what does it all mean?


when she was a little girl

her father would lift her up, out of her self

and into his storm

throwing her, spinning her

round, up, through

pulling, tugging,

lifting her into the light

cleansing her of her sins


the window bursts open,

The wind steals in; takes everything



lifting up the past into itself and dancing into the night


the room is empty




wind streams through her

she is the wind

she screams

and the wind howls

in the space were her voice should be.