Under the city’s mercies

Before midnight leaves her with this creeping termite-like impression that says it doesn’t matter what happened anymore, just what she’s becoming in a breathing place called a city where a face must have been breathing life into her words, yet to no hold when her core’s such a chore to shelter and choosing happiness isn’t a reflex—she chokes in her clouded, spacing-out mind so used to make sense of the heart’s splinters and nothing else. Now where does she go from here, where does she go from here?