Her Name Is . . .

Standing there with nothing on but a little white dress.
Long, wavy brown hair tumbles over her shoulders;
hiding away the weight she carries along in organized folders.
On the surface she is glowing.
A thin, white light radiates around her skin;
the light that never sees the end.
She has eyes full of life
and a smile that is sharper than most knives.
Don't touch her
because she is so fragile
and infantile.
Don't speak to her
because you will break the silence
and she won't stop crying.
On the inside
her world is dark and cold.
Tucked beneath the hollow tunnels that are her veins
are secrets that only come out when her eyes bring rain.
On the inside
her soul is breaking and turning to stone.
Lurking among the shadows that is her heart
are memories that make her smile break apart.
Oh, her name is
sticking, clutching onto my frozen lips . . .





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