In All the World

I remember the kind of anger

the blonde lady had.

Her austere expression

and clenched fists,

eyes down and closed,

not wishing to see

or be seen.

She said

she had lost everything

she’d ever wanted,

as she wept and rested

her head in her hands.

It seemed

she had realized that

in all the world

there was only her

and every other living thing

which plotted against her.

And she couldn’t understand

what she had done wrong,

or why she wasn’t

good enough to have

her heart spared

from being broken.

Then she sat motionless

while I told my story,

and the next person told theirs

and so on.

So many stories.

Before they

were finished being told

she had collected her things

and left the room.