She’s alone again—
the raindrops on her window
count the years she’s been blue.
She bought a cake—
it’s her birthday,
and the sun forgot to come.
She’s a big girl now—
forty-five, fifty-five, sixty-five, or seventy-five,
going on thirty-five, twenty-five,
fifteen, or five?
She’s still that little girl who can’t forget
the time of her first and only party—
the invitations were sent, but no one came.
She’s much older now,
more invisible to happiness
than the year before.
She’s lonely—
the raindrops keep her company,
as well as the solitary blue candle
on the red velvet cake.
She’s angry—
she takes revenge on
the flickering candle,
blows out its dancing glory,
wishes for her birthday go up in smoke.
She’s crying and says, To hell with love—
her fork stabs the first slice,
her hopes grow slimmer,
her waistline grows broader.
She cuts another slice of caloric bliss—
the raindrops bang harder,
the blues feed her mood.