She’s a figure of beauty
carved from stone and left in isolation.
Her only company being herself and her thoughts.

She stands cold and still,
posed the way the artist envisioned her.
Gentle smile and happy, glittering eyes -
She's the image of perfection.

The wind and rain strike against her surface,
weathering and wearing her down
decreasing her value with every passing day.

Her parents never wanted a child.
They wanted a platinum prize for showing off.
They wanted a quiet doll to manipulate and control.
They wanted straight A’s, straight girl, good looks, good talents.
They wanted to brag without pride.

She begins to corrode and split from the inside out,
crumbling and becoming hollow.
Heavy at her feet and just numb everywhere else.

She’s screaming out for help,

hoping someone will finally hear her
and maybe reach out to her.

She’s crying, begging for someone to tend to her and pull her together
just one more time.

She’s breaking.

Her smile fades into a flat line,
lips pursed so tight that they’re white.
Her eyes grow dull and dark,
never opening wide and often falling
Weighted by tear soaked lashes.

She’s the image of pain.
Her heart sinking as her life pushes on without her.

She falls to her knees,
landing with a lonely thud.
Beads of despair crash to the floor beneath her like lead.

Her throat closes up on her and she chokes,
struggling between wanting to breathe
and wanting to die.