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My Little Angel
My little girl had the bluest eyes.
Right up until her mental demise.
They were as deep as the roots of a Wild Fig tree.
And through those eyes,
She saw the world in a different light than others.
It was a world protected by the love of mothers,
United by the bond between brothers.
She grew up unbiased, naive and innocent,
Untouched by the poisonous claws of the young society.
She never knew the restrictions of propriety.
My little girl had the brownest hair.
The sunlight turned the fine strands red and gold like autumn leaves
It was as lush as a green meadow after April showers.
I used to brush her long hair for hours and hours,
Until it was as soft as the finest silk.
She always wore her hair down,
A main of wild waves framing her heart shaped face,
Wild and alive, like her.
My little girl had the smoothest skin,
Unmarked and unblemished.
Whiter than a pearl,
Her skin glistened like glass in the moonlight.
And every night,
When I tucked her in and whispered sleep tight
I stroked her velvety cheek until she drifted off into a peaceful slumber.
I remember cradling her tiny hands in mine,
A perfect fit.
Her hands were always slightly warm,
A comforting thought.
They moved swiftly and steadily, always.
My daughter was a little angel.
I used to dream about her future.
I imagined she was a ballerina, a painter or a musician.
She would spread her light around the world
Until everyone was infected with her spirit.
Now, those dreams are gone.
The sparkle drained out of her blue eyes,
Leaving them empty and cold.
Her hair no longer curls around her face.
It hangs limply around her skull,
Clinging on with the finest strands.
Her skin is sallow and gray,
Stretched tightly over her cheek bones,
The velvet replaced by a scaly alien texture.
Her hands no longer hold warmth.
They are always cold and shaking with anxiety.
My daughter is a zombie.
Her once unblemished skin,
Is now scarred with cuts and scratches.
I know deep down my little angel still exists in that corpse,
But she is trapped in an inexorable prison.
Every time the smoke fills her lungs
Will she escape conformity?