Jane Doe is still with us

Jane Doe still lives amongst us all.
She won’t give up.
I know she’s a recurrent white wave, she continues to die in hidden places in  States,  cities,  roads,  cornfields,
rivers, lakes, black holes, sordid ditches, forgotten cabins in neglected woods and forests.
She always haunts us.
I think about her. She already crossed the line.
She was born to be killed, forgotten, ignored, discarded as  rubbish.
I know her, she is emaciated, she’s got nothing, she loves music and she dreams about love and happiness,
she left everything, she’s scared of abusers, she’s alive and nearly dead.
She wears worn shoes and her skirt glows with a thousand of blood stains particles, her torn-down top lets me see her mangled white tits.
Her naked legs should have run faster than the killer.
But now her little hands open undone for the cold past which should be warmer and most tangible like a smile or stroking.
The skin still smells her intimate life, as vulnerable as when it was alive, as dead.
When she dies, her body begins so heavy and full of soul.
Her soul stays around for a while, a long while until Jane  will burn and rot  in the rain and putrefy.
Jane Doe remains rot-proof in my heart.

Her last belongings reveal her lack of illusion. She would be aware before all of this shit, she would know her murderer, like we breathe.
She’s a special person. Nobody knows her. Except some relatives they never asked for her and abandoned her.
I love her so much.

Alice Odilon.