Gott weiss ich will kein Engel sein.

None of this matters, she says.

You can't think of anything to tell her,
anything she hasn't already
thought of herself,
anything that could break
the cycle—
the sadness,
the shame,
the anger,
the endless cacophany of should.

What's the point, she says, flicking her cigarette.
Ashes glow in the wind, a brief spark,
and go out.