Nothing at all

There's nothing quite like the
Dull grey skin of despondent daughters
And how the sun can't seem to shine in their eyes anymore.
Wading in the water, they can't bring themselves to
Ask the Rivers of Langston Hughes for kisses
Despite how deep their soul might have been.

So they wrap themselves in their own arms
And quiet,
And breathe in sharp air;
The kind that ignites the shameful fires in your throat
Of everything you should have said.
Would have said.

Crippling condemnation veils their face
And they look up
And see nothing.