I am this woman

She reminds me of an old lady
frustration bound
to her body
desperation
bent over
holding
herself
her shell
this box that is so
confining
so liberating
she smiles
with eyes that hurt
she moves hiding
herself
she breathes, still
a hand on her belly
as she stares out
the window at
the trees blowing
in the wind that
whistles out her tune
and by her I mean
myself.
I cannot assume that
I am separate from
this woman.
I am this woman
standing, holding
her shell high.
I am this disease
and this shell.
Eating away at
the looks on our faces.
I eat her smiles
as my own get
eaten away.
I am this woman.