Sawdust Heart

The chair was stiff
as I sat down in my black jeans.
They were freshly bought
and tight around my thighs.
The office was lit
by white ceiling lights,
shadows cast too sort.
A lady behind the desk
wore a long black pencil skirt
and thin reading glasses.
I didn't say a word.
Even when the nice lady
in the jeans and long red shirt
smiled and told me,
"Wait here,"
my mouth was too dry.
I was holding a heart of sawdust.
The kids I used to love
snickered looking at me
sitting in a black chair.
They'd never sat
all by themselves before.
They never knew
the feeling of isolation.
They'd never seen me cry,
mascara running wet,
and lips quivering.
Six years is a long time
for them to begin
and here I am,
trying not to drop their lonely
and bitter
sawdust hearts.