The Bus Going Home

On the bus going home
She writes in her journal.
Ink marks scraping on bone
Pages etched in blood.
She is reconciled
To being dragged through mud.
Life has not materialized
 In the way she once imagined.
Instead she swats flies
Off of the corpse
That was once her life.
Her dream warps
She feels undignified
Like a recently castrated dog.
She writes invisible words
As the last drop
Of her soul evaporates
Unto the pages.