For the number of ears available,
She chooses the cracks in the four walled room.
Where the face of Jesus hangs,
If the walls could talk they would know her better than her own mother.
Better than the back side of her hand,
And if her mother can’t see the smeared make up; then who can?
Although who is not what and what is a mirror, that cannot reflect.
A shattered eye that is deaf to the noise of weeping and fear,
Or the cloud of cotton sewed over with fabric.
That cannot hear nor see, but feels where her cheek touches and tears fall.
Yet they’re all canceled from what her body can’t take, but what her bed supports.
Tossing and turning, clenched teeth and wrapped arms comfort herself.
The pain can’t be heard by the four walled room, this pain can’t be seen by the shattered eye;
Nor felt by the softness of a cloud.
Clueless to what is happening inside, even health class could explain.
She prays upon where the face of Jesus hangs.