On the surface she has grown a plastic shell,
But on the inside she’s tired of the mix…
The black from the pain,
Golden rays of hope, and
Red tears falling inside her eye sockets.
The white purity,
Blue of mental scars, and
Silver linings showing her better times.
All being held inside the plastic container she calls her skin.
There’s a faint yell between her welded lips.
“I’m tired of the mix…” is what I can hear it saying…

Looking in her glass eyes you can she see she’s been back and forth.
Being tugged towards pain and pulled by pleasure.
Too far gone,
Outstretched in every mental direction possible.
She lives in ambiguity wondering if she took one step forward,
Or ten steps back…
Her legs are stiff from being out on the ledge too long…
Afraid to move,
But making sporadically leaps at the change of the wind on a limb…

By her side lays a broken scissor,
The one she tried to cut things off with, before she fell in this deep.
But the stories tell,
Every time she tried you found your way back in.
Unsure if it’s the destiny she doesn't believe in,
Or the God she lives to serve bringing you back in;
Your daily presence in her thoughts,
The memories branded,
And the very vision of you,
All scorched the covered hole in the back of her head.

But somehow she’s managed to go on, with or without you.
But as I watch her go through each day I wonder;
“what will happen when her only burning question resides?”
“When will that day come when she’ll be answered?”
“Were you fate…or coincidence?”