Portrait

Hormone driven tears,
Leak from the corners of her eyes,
Dripping mascara lines down her cheeks,
Until she looks like she is made of paper,
Inky drawings of nothing at all,
Plastered upon a pasty complexion,
Saying nothing at all,
But conveying sorrow.

And she tells me that she wishes that she weren’t,
Trapped on this place called earth,
And she wishes that her God hadn’t given her,
Such flimsy arms and legs,
So inadequate for propelling her through this storm,
And she hates how the birds fly without her,
How her feet are rooted to the ground,
And she hates how the whales swim without her,
How when she tries to swim she always sinks,
And she hates that as cities spring from forested ground,
Hastily built from concrete and steel,
And how now it is hard to find the beauty.

She was brought up in a Catholic home,
But now she tells me she wants to change,
Slurring words like,
Hinduism,
Buddhism,
Atheist,
She drew in purple sharpie on the paper thin pages of her bible,
Marking out the words she has now come to hate,
Changing them to suit herself,
To make herself happy,
But she didn’t know that,
When we were hugging and crying,
When the world fell to pieces,
Leaving us with bloody fingers holding onto shards of glass,
That I heard her praying.





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Kvothe said...
Oct. 27, 2009 at 5:24 pm
Really freaking awesome!!!!
 
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