Tatters

You held my sanity in the palms of your hands,
And, as I watched, you ripped it to shreds,
diminished it to disheveled and useless tatters.
Now I sit listlessly, hopelessly, helplessly,
waiting...waiting...waiting.
You did everything you could
to demean me, disrespect me, despise me;
Now I wonder what you did to blind me so.
A hindering help, you were-
You never expected me to be more than
your second fiddle.
You always expected more than I could give,
I always gave more than I could expect to.
My heart grows colder with each passing day,
And with each passing moment, the light shrinks
from my consciousness.
Tirelessly I threw myself into becoming
everything you wanted me to...
But I tripped, fell flat on my face.
Now I don't even know who I am anymore.
My identity, my heart, my lucidity-
they're all lost causes now...
damaged beyond recovery.
Those pieces of me have died...my spirit hangs by a mere thread.
So I became a murderer...
Killed the killer,
and deadened the chunk of my bruised heart
that was consumed by you.
And now there's an unmendable hole there-
Where once love was, there is now an
undying fear of everything
that ever was and could possibly be.
Now there's emptiness.
Now...there's nothing.

Desert Rains

If life was a desert,
you'd be my rain,
the quench to my thirst
after miles of mirages.
If the sky fell today,
I'd catch a cloud for us to float on.
You're the sun to my days, the stars to my nights,
utter completion to my unfinished dreams and wishes.
The pieces of us are like rain to an ocean,
falling steadily together to continuously
add to one completely and unmistakably
unstoppable force.
You have all of me,
completely,
infallibly,
forever.
I love you.

Oblivion

Sometimes this life is beyond tiresome,
and mostly all I ever desire is some
solitude,
peace and quiet...
To level my mood;
All I really need is time to brood.
But things move so quickly
and so I'm limited to behaving fickly-
Snatching what solace I can,
as I juggle uncompromising demands...
Unable to "live it up,"
I can only live up to
immovable expectations, and standards of speculation...
No time for thrills,
only for what is promised, and fulfilled.
Far too many untold stories,
and the time's never enough to write them...
My head is full of doubtful worries,
though I stand tall despite them.
If life is the only way to prepare us for dying,
then giving in is inevitable, I'd  rather give up trying.
I'd prefer to say my life's only begun,
than to spend it in fearful oblivion.

Curtains

They're all watching like hawks
looking for all my faults;
If I do one thing wrong,
then I can tell my peace of mind "so long..."
Because they never let me forget it,
they only make me regret it.
So I pray hard to
stop being prey to
people with toxic minds,
so I can love myself in kind-
I never understood what that really means;
There are so many "fews" and not enough "far betweens..."
All life is dead-
the only way to revive it
is to survive it
or be survived by it.
Pointing issues at my head
and I rely on my tissues instead
of playing nurse
to my wounded heart.
But crying is something like dying,
it solves nothing,
and leaves you raw and broken,
speaking to words unspoken.
Curse of all curses, one would definitely think
that I was on the brink
of complete and total destruction-
although this is no more than a mere disruption.
Restrictions and convictions,
I'm on a twisted mission...
Convoluted in nature
and full of unforeseen danger,
I know not what I do,
or who I look for, it's true...
But one thing's sure and certain,
and that's the simple fact that
I'll never call it
curtains.

You Must've Done Something

To have captured my heart, my soul, to have raised my spirits to unspeakable levels...

You must've done something.

You forced my guard down

and explored places unknown,

You helped me to see things through new eyes...

You must have done something.

For all the things we've been through,

and all the pain we've endured...

for all the amazing times we've shared;

For us to have lived and loved the way we have

and me not understanding these feelings deep, but embracing them all the same-

You really did something.

For me to place you above all else,

your needs before my own,

to make your wants my desires...

Damn, you're really something.

Whatever you do, it's working, and working well,

Because for the life of me,

I can't tell

Where you end--and I begin;

And words can't express the feelings I have within...

For you, for us, and what we've become;

what we'll continue to be and I'm almost struck dumb

by my love for you and the way my heart aches

at the thought of losing you, at the idea of being without you. 

I love you with everything I have, and then some...

What you've done to me, I cannot say,

But I'm glad that I wake up to you every day. 

I love you, heart and soul,

body and spirit.

You've overtaken me completely...

You must've done something.

Atonement

Lonely, desolate,
Stressed beyond measure...
Smoking Newport after Newport,
but it's no longer for the pleasure.
No way out,
and too far in;
Unsure of where
my life stops
and the bullshit begins.
Is this a win-win, or a lose-lose?
There's no certain way
to really pick and choose...
My judgment's impaired,
and I'm splitting hairs-
Wondering when the merry-go-round stops whirling;
This has to stop, surely.
Losing time, losing heart,
with no idea where to start-
Is it too late?
Will these fears ever abate?
Looking for meaning in promises never meant,
trying to cash in on time never spent-
And wondering if this is just a fluke,
Or a form of atonement...

A Little More About Me

Hey, Y'all! (Paula Deen voice lol)

 

Okay, so I know I promote this page as something of a place for me to exhibit my work, I'm a writer, obviously I want you to read. But let's cut to the chase here. No one wants to read the work of an artist that they know nothing about, right? I mean, don't get me wrong, mystery is good in some cases, but not this one.

Unfortunately for y'all, I have no pictures of myself scantily clad with tons of makeup in semi-erotic poses. That would definitely have drawn more traffic to this blog, I'm sure. I'm sure that if right now, if I put up a pic of myself half naked in a come-hither pose licking my lips or something of that nature, I'd have about 200 "likes" in less than 10 minutes. What is it they say? SEX SELLS??? Exactly. Well it won't be selling on THIS blog. I can't give you what sells, what's hot right now, or what society believes is the trend at the moment. I can't provide you with an unusual means of entertainment that involves abnormal amounts of violence or videos that most would find hilarious. I can't, and I won't. But what I can give you, is the truth. For those of you who know me, you know that I have the tendency to say whatever is on my mind, whenever it's on my mind, no holds barred, regardless of whether or not I hurt someone's feelings. That's just the way I am, the way I've always been, and the way I always will be. There's no changing me. Love me as I am, or leave me alone, I could honestly care less either way.

 

Most of you know that I was born and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio, and that I now live in Atlanta, GA…but screw the demographics and all that blah blah blah, you guys truly don't give a flying hell about where and how I grew up. You just want to know what makes me ME, what makes me TICK, what makes me say and do some of the shit I do. Well, here it is: I'm NOT normal, I DON'T give a f***, and I DON'T "go with the flow" just to fit in. Did I mention I don't give a f***? That being said, writing has always been an outlet for me, whether I'm happy, sad, irritated, pissed off, amorous, whatever. Whatever I'm feeling, whenever I'm feeling it, however I'm feeling it, if I can't express it verbally or emotionally. I express it in writing. It's easier, and a whole hell of a lot more cleansing than If I'd have just had a heart to heart with someone who possibly either doesn't care about me like I imagine they would, or who may possibly go tell everyone they know, or worse yet, judge me. None of which I need if I'm going through something.

 

A lot of people ask me, "Why is it so sad?" or "Who broke your heart?" Honestly, a lot of my writing, especially my poetry, has nothing directly to do with me. A lot of it is based on what I've observed, whether in my own life or someone else's, or things that I've experienced or other people have experienced. Basically, I can derive inspiration from anything, or anyone. Realistically, everything has to have a basis, right? But it's the truth. The slightest things can inspire me to write something profound….or even something silly, depending on my mood. I have a lot of silly free writes, just because I was in a goofy mood and felt like writing, but wasn't really serious about it. I get like that sometimes (LOL).

So, you wonder, "What made her post this?" or "Why should I care?" Well, you should, and even if you don't, I just wanted to give you all a little inside look. And this won't be the last post like this. You might see more like this, especially if I'm ranting or raving about something…so be on the lookout for more posts like these, you may just learn something, lol. Just kidding. Or maybe I'm not…you'll never really know though, now will you? ;-)

Insomnia

I can't sleep at night,
and I've given up on trying to figure out why...
And these tosses and turns and longing sighs
can't be more than outward cries
for help, for solace, and for peace...
Some semblance of normal
to put my mind at ease.
Right now I'm up a creek without a paddle
in a capsized boat, and as I battle
for sanity, for calm,
I wonder if I went about this all wrong...
Because nothing is going right,
and my hopeless dreams take flight-
leaving me in their dust
alone in a place where survival is a must.
Thoughts shattered like glass,
as each endless day slips past...
I wonder, is it truly worth it?
Or am I just one of the cursed?
No one's perfect-
That's what they say,
but more so I think to keep reality at bay.
No matter what is felt, and what is said,
There seems no way to purge this doubt from my head.
Broken days, and glittering nights,
I look to the stars to ponder my plight.
Wishing for a miracle, a blessing or three;
All I want is for my wandering soul
to be set free.
My bed is a desert, my blanket a cloud-
My vision plays hide and seek with the fears my mind shrouds.
And as darkness lifts, leaving everything sparkling with dew,
I turn from my insomnia, and start the cycle anew.

Graveyard

I miss you at night
in the dwindling of light
when the little birds cease flight...
I miss you too much,
miss waking to your touch...
I miss the strength of your arms;
their security, and their warmth.
I miss your hands,
their caresses, their demands,
their give, and their take,
their surrender, and their command.
I miss falling asleep with the knowledge you're there,
swaddling myself in the comfort of knowing you care...
I miss your presence, so strong and endearing,
I miss waking to you as morning is nearing.
You're always on my mind;
Is this a torture of some kind?
Because I can't sleep without you-
And your side of the bed remains empty and cool.
I never thought it would be this hard...
Something like an uncut deck of cards,
Trying to rest in the empty hours
between night and day-
Going half-crazy, all alone
as I sit up waiting for you
to come home...

Emotion-Deaf

I once felt
that every word you spoke
touched my heart
in a way no one else ever could.
I once thought
that your touch
set my soul afire
in ways I never dreamed imaginable.
I once burned
with an inextinguishable passion
and an insatiable thirst
that nothing but your love could quench-
or so I thought...
I once thought that you were
the man of my dreams-
But now dreams come as
broken fragments of reality;
An inescapable nightmare
that haunts me constantly.
I had this crazy notion
that you made me see the world
as a newborn baby does for the first time:
through new eyes.
I now know that the words you spoke
held small daggers of poisonous lies
beneath the surface
that shredded my heart.
I now understand
that your touch
is that of a 4th degree burn;
there is no recoil,
and complete recovery is almost impossible.
I now feel that my passion for you
was nothing more than the lust
of my lackadaisical soul,
crying out for the passion
it so duly deserves.
I now realize
that my dreams
were nothing more than fanciful nightmares,
disguising themselves as whimsical notions 
that eased the pain of reality...
I know now that 
I couldn't see the world at all;
But the blinders have been ripped from my eyes,
and they're now full of tears...
All I wanted was to be loved,
but I couldn't see that
what was right in front of me
was not what lay ahead of me.
Blinded by pain,
numbed by heartbreak,
You were a breath of fresh air
to my tortured senses-
But I wish my heart had heeded its own warnings
before it was too late.
Unable to listen-
Choosing only to hear
what I wanted to,
I was emotionally deafened; spiritually bereft-
And, to my own chagrin, my heart's vacuity
cut me deeper
than the jagged pieces of your soul
ever had.

Depression

I'm so close to snapping
it's just not funny...
no rhythm and rhyme here,
just an overstressed consciousness.
Nerves pulled tighter
than worn out rubber bands-
tightrope walking on the chicken wire
of unfulfillable demands. 
Do this, fix that,
they say-
cook this, clean that....
a continuum of routine?
I couldn't say.
Clouds in my coffee-
maybe it's just mold
because it's been sitting here as long as I have
and it's been gone cold.
My cigarette sits burning
unsmoked, because my yearning
for it barely exists-
and the ashtray is surrounded 
by piles of undone [to-do] lists.
Crazy? going there, maybe
because I've gone baby in the mind
I have no sense of time
and I'm so damn tired
I can't even call it sublime.
When my subconscious speaks,
I hear it through a tunnel
the waves of energy I seek
seep from me like a funnel.
I'm drained-
mind and body like spaghetti-
mentally on vacay
but spirit at the ready...
wanting to do so much,
reaching for dreams I can't touch;
Half-sane and constantly denying
that my zest for life is dying.
I try so hard and fail
and only loneliness prevails,
because misery loves company
and I have no outlets...
Guess I ain't wired right,
because I constantly forget
the reason that I fight
to exist, to live,
to overlook, to forgive
all the wrong done,
I can't be the only one...
can I?
Is it just me?
Or are we really never free?
I'm just trying to find my place
but no one will make space,
and the things that give me respite
are the same ones that make me desperate
for the freedom of expression
that could see me through these transgressions
and clear the road of the aggressions
that hold these chains of depression.

Untitled

Compositions-

of words that don't speak-

bound by the strength of the weak.

Rhythms-

of a heart that doesn't beat

Baked by suns without heat.

Sensations-

of pain that doesn't hurt

passed over by years of unclean dirt...

Vibrations-

of touch that never feels,

and wounds that never heal;

Fantasies that deign to be real.

Realities-

of unmovable forces that never pause

That reach out with their sharp claws

of anguish and just cause.

Dreams-

of nightmares that never cease;

of souls without peace.

Love-

that gift from above

that alights as a dove

weightless and beautiful

and arguably indisputable.

Hate-

of useless ties that bind

so meaningfully unkind

and never far behind...

Life

a maze of destinations

approached with trepidations

of endless limitations.

Death-

a thing we all fear

each day draws it near

making circumstances clear-

wiping slates clean...

We're really never here.

Life-In a Nutshell

The kids are screaming at the top of their lungs,

and the dog won't stop barking.

There's a news story on TV about shopping mall parking.

It's cold outside, and I never have a jacket...

And the neighborhood kids keep up a steady racket.

The house is a mess

and the people in it

are in various states of undress...

There are too many clothes in the laundry basket

and Internet ads advise me to prepay for a casket.

There's too much going on,

and most of it's going wrong-

And I think I've been doing this too long,

because none of it worries me,

Because although I'm not footloose and fancy-free,

I'm perfectly happy

and exactly where I wanna be.

Chapter 1 and 2 from the book (work in progress): Losing It

Chapter 1

Shyleen Amaura Jackson-Forrest was a bright, ambitious woman. She had always been tough, straightforward, and fearless. Even as a child, her mother had both admired and been annoyed by her daughter’s aggressive, take-charge attitude. She was sassy, but clever, and smart as a whip. She was feisty, demanding, and impatient. She always knew what she wanted, and would stop at nothing to get it. Her mother always said, “Doing what you want and knowing what you want are two different things, but you seem to have a knack for both. It ain’t always good, and it ain’t always bad, but you need to learn the difference between the two and use them wisely.” Her mother had never steered her wrong, and, over time, she did learn the difference, found that balance between doing and knowing. This gave her a fairer disposition, and also made it easier for her to determine when to be pushy and aggressive, and when to take a more compromising stance.

Shyleen always went after what she wanted, no matter what. She asked the man who later became her husband to the prom, and she demanded an interview with the head of a company who had once before told her they weren’t hiring. She got the job almost solely because the supervisor was impressed with her candor. She was intimidating, and struck both a fear and unique respect in her employees and friends alike.
She was also very beautiful, which was another reason people were in constant awe of her. Her skin, a beautiful cinnamon-mahogany, was smooth and clear. Her prominent almond shaped eyes were the color of raw honey. She had a small, rounded “button” nose, and full, heart-shaped lips. Her thick, dark hair, naturally streaked with lighter shades of brown and reddish-gold, was long and very curly. She usually kept it pulled back into a large knot at the nape of her neck; and, when untamed, it was a bursting mass of unruly curls. She stood at five feet eight inches, and her body was long and curvy, with full breasts, a small waist, rounded hips, and a high, wide bottom. The latter was the bane of her existence, mainly because she had to buy pants that were a little larger than most to accommodate her derriere. But her curvy figure was mostly the least of her worries, as her husband didn’t complain. In fact, he loved it, and was always encouraging her to buy clothes that fit snugly to show off her body. She was very in love with him, and valued his opinion so much, that she always acquiesced. She loved their life together, and their kids, and just knew they would be together forever…

Chapter 2

Shyleen had always been a productive person. Growing up, she took dance classes and piano lessons, and throughout high school, she was in every club and group imaginable. She was very popular, and her dominant and exuberant personality made her very likable and gained her numerous friends, some of whom she remained close to even after high school and college. After college, she married her high school sweetheart, William Blake Forrest, who she’d also grown up with.

William, or Will, as she so affectionately called him, was very handsome. He was tall, well over six feet, and had skin the color of caramel. His hair was dark brown, and very wavy. He wore it cut short and faded off at the sides and back. His bedroom eyes were a light chestnut, and framed with long, thick lashes. His nose turned up slightly at the tip, giving it an almost feminine quality. His mouth was wide, his lips full, and extremely kissable. He had a dimple in his chin, and dimples in his cheeks that flashed when he smiled. He was a large man, with broad shoulders, a wide chest, muscular arms, and a stomach so hard and flat you could iron a shirt on it. His narrow waist and hips accentuated his tall frame, and the back view was just as amazing as the front. He’d fallen in love with Shyleen almost from the moment they’d met at the age of 4. They grew up on the same street, went to the same schools, and spent most of their time together. She’d asked him to the prom in high school, and both were crowned prom king and queen both years. He asked Shyleen to marry him after graduation, but she wasn’t having it. She and her mother both believed education came first. So he waited, and their love grew stronger throughout college. Shortly after college, they got married.

They had two beautiful children, the first a girl, Amber Rose Forrest, named for her amber-colored skin and rosy cheeks and lips. She was very much like her mother and just as beautiful. She inherited her mother’s light eyes, her father’s dimples, and her mother’s button nose. She had dark, wavy hair like her father’s, a pert little nose and full rosebud lips. Even as a baby she was very demanding and extremely straightforward. She, like her mother, had Will wrapped around her little finger from the moment he laid eyes on her. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her happy. Shyleen was in love with her daughter, and dressed Amber up for every small occasion. Her room was pink and white, and as she grew, it became obvious that she was going to love being “girly” as much as her mother did.

Two years after little Amber Rose was born, Shyleen gave birth to a little boy, William Blake Forrest, Jr., who she and Will affectionately nicknamed “Little Will.” He had his mother’s cinnamon mahogany complexion, his father’s chestnut eyes and turned up nose, and his mother’s wild mop of curls. He had his father’s wide mouth and an identical cleft in his chin. His parents were overjoyed at his birth, mainly because he almost didn’t make it. Shyleen’s pregnancy with him was a bit troublesome, and very high-risk, as she’d had preeclampsia, that is, pregnancy induced high blood pressure, and gestational diabetes. She and her doctor did their best to control the diabetes, but it still got out of hand. The doctor decided to induce her labor at 34 weeks, and although there were risks of serious problems or even fatalities from the early delivery, the risks of carrying him to term were even greater. But Little Will was perfect in every way and even big for his gestational age at a healthy eight pounds and three ounces. He only stayed in the hospital a week for observation, and his parents and big sister were happy to finally bring him home.

Both Amber Rose (who was nicknamed Rosie, for her rosy cheeks and disposition), and Little Will (also known as Willy) got along extremely well as they grew up. They were also as different as night and day. Where Rosie was demanding and precocious, Little Will was peaceful and complacent. He rarely argued with anyone, and he was always happy to help out wherever needed. His sister, however, was another story. She not only argued, she threw temper tantrums; and not just any tantrums, either. She threw foot-stomping, eye-rolling, screaming-at-the-top-of-her-lungs, if-I-can’t-get-what-I-want-then-nobody’s-happy tantrums. Rosie’s mother and father soon tired of these peevish outbursts, and began punishing her for them: taking away her favorite toys, restricting her from her favorite activities, or taking away her favorite Dora the Explorer DVDs. The tantrums soon abated, and life soon returned to normal in the Forrest household. Shyleen and Will doted on their children, and they on their parents. There was a lot of love and affection present in their home, and both children grew and thrived considerably as the years passed.

Shyleen returned to work once Little Will was big enough to be left with a babysitter, but she altered her work schedule so that she could spend more time with her husband and children, and did a lot of work from home. She worked as an Account Executive for a very large, very reputable company in the Buckhead area of Atlanta. She supervised a large number of employees, so much so that her department took up an entire floor of her office building. She imposed both fear and respect in her employees, and was no-nonsense yet very fair, and therefore well-loved by them. She developed a strong and pleasant rapport with most, if not all, of her employees, and they often came to her with both work and even personal problems. Because of this, many of them stayed with the company years after most would have moved on to higher positions and better pay with different companies.

In Shy and Will’s eighth year of marriage, on their anniversary, they were to attend an anniversary party being hosted by their parents and close friends. It was being held at The Blue Dog, a snazzy little jazz café with excellent food and live entertainment, located in South Buckhead and minutes from both their jobs. Shyleen was running a bit late, and called Will to tell him so. Will had gotten off early and was preparing to drop the kids off at the babysitter when Shyleen called him.

“Hey, baby, what’s up?” Will answered the phone in the rich baritone that sent shivers down her spine even after all the years she’d known him and they’d been together. “Nothing much, honey. I was calling to let you know that I’m running a bit late, and that I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. I got caught up at the job, you know we’re working on the Blaston account, and I had to put in an extra hour. But I’ll be there soon.” She paused as she tucked away a stray tendril of hair that had come loose from the stylish updo she’d arranged it into. “No worries, baby,” he said, as he maneuvered through the traffic on the six lane highway on his way to the babysitter’s. “I’m a little late myself; Rosie’s dance class ran over, and Willy couldn’t find Toodle,” he said, referring to their son’s beloved teddy bear that he just couldn’t seem to sleep without. He heard Shyleen chuckle. “So I’ll see you soon. I love you, and I can’t wait to see you.”
“Love you, too. ‘Bye, sweetie,” Shyleen replied, and hung up the phone. She was so excited, and couldn’t wait to get to the party and enjoy a night of celebrating and dancing with her husband and close friends. She called her best friend, George Wallace, who she’d nicknamed “Georgie,” to apprise him of the situation. She waited patiently as the phone rang, and while it rang, she gave herself a quick once-over in the mirror. Satisfied, she sat down to pull on her shoes.
“Georgie,” she said when he’d answered the phone, “I’m running a little late, and I should be there in the next ten minutes. Don’t start the party without me,” she said, chuckling.
“Now you know I’d never do that,” he said in his mellow voice. “However, you didn’t say anything about drinking without you, so I’ve already gotten started on that!” He laughed. “I’ll let your family know, and I’ll see you when you get here.”
“Thanks, Georgie, and leave it to you to get started on the drinking! You are so crazy. I’ll see you soon!” she said, and laughing, hung up the phone and rushed out the door to get to the party in the time she’d estimated. She just couldn’t wait to see everyone. But she had no idea that her celebratory spirits would soon be crushed, and that nothing would ever be the same as it had been again.

Snippet from my newest work in progress (book): Losing It

Prologue

He touched her. She felt it, even in sleep, and turned to him in response. Their lips met, in a soft, tender kiss that sent a hot fist of desire through her belly. Their hands, roving over each other’s bodies, linked as they joined together. Their fire turned to blinding, molten heat as their coupling became more and more frenzied. Her hips rolled and met his, thrust for thrust, as they both pushed each other up and over, until they were both out of control. Thunder crashed; shaking the room as she climaxed with an equally passionate fervor, and she cried out…

It was raining. She sat bolt upright in bed, bleary-eyed, as she got her bearings. For a brief moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. The dream was so vivid; it disoriented her so that she didn’t move until her surroundings came into full focus. She got out of bed, smoothing her riotous hair back from her face, and walked to doors that opened out onto a large balcony that gave her an astounding view of the city. She opened the doors and stepped out. The humid night air hit her as she watched the rain fall in filming sheets. A bolt of lightning split the weather-maddened streaky purple sky in half, and thunder roared loudly. A slight wind blew a bit of the falling rain toward her balcony, and mist touched her face. She turned her face to it as she thought again of the dream. She began to shiver in the warm air, and unable to bear the beauty and suggestive sensuality of the rain any longer, turned around and walked inside. She sat on the edge of the bed, and, as if seeing it for the first time, looked at the clock. It was 3:18 am, and she had less than two and a half hours of sleep left before she was to start her day. Deciding it was best to try and go back to sleep while she still had time, she made a quick trip to the bathroom, and then walked down the hall to check on the kids. I hope I didn’t wake them, screaming like that, she thought as she stopped at the first door. She put her hand on the knob, and then it all came rushing back. Her hands shook, and her eyes stung with unshed tears. No, no, no, she thought, remembering, remembering that there were no children in this room, or in the other one. And there would never be again. Nothing would be the same anymore. Why? She asked herself silently, as tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked and her body shook with silent sobs. She slumped against the door, sliding down as though all the energy had suddenly sapped from her…