They told her she could be anything.
But never did she anticipate a women loving woman,
with trembling innards spewed on a cold street right next to
her charred pulsing muscle. 
They didn't mention the ache of fraying sinews.
Or of rose water weeping wounds to be bandaged
while the world sleeps. 
She didn't know about the store of sludge in the pit of her gut
that would make her gurgle as she choked;
futile attempts not to swallow herself. 
They told her to follow her dreams. 
But all she dreams of is sleep. 
Author's Notes/Comments: 

I am not entirely sure of what this is meant to mean, I could just feel the words urging me to put them to paper.

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