Cold fingertips tucked in the palms of oversized sweatshirts
Chapped lips pressed against a mug whispering out silent prayers
To a God she doesn't believe in.
Dry skin rough under the touch of those who claim they love her
Salty water leaving trails of comfort to flavor her morning coffee
Streaks of tears holding unspoken emotion against a forgotten girls tongue.
A breath of air that swirls and disappears,
Proving that you do not have to live to be alive.
A coarse hair stuck to the corner of her mumbling mouth
Split ends prominent in the glow of the sun.
Feet worn from constant running
Tough and scarred from the hot coals she constantly treads on.
The smell of rubber soles long burned linger in her clothing.
Her voice comes out as high-pitched as a newborns
Pleads the way a child's does
But she has the vocabulary of an adult.
Her existence a definite maybe,
A sad joke,
An oxymoron fitted to her at birth.
She screams out nothing and is met with it in return.
Sad eyes searching,
Waiting for a distraction
Her life being plucked away in an endless abstraction of hope
Dictated by no one yet ruled by her alone.
Self-destruction brought on by fake realities
And she will never wake up
Because all they see is silence.