tangled in her hair
breathing in her thread
muddled in her work
belonging on her page
the three that changed her
she'd let them again
but bitterness claws
its way out of her heart
one for the brightness
and for the discovery
that
the concept of happiness
is never a whole one
two for the silence
for the nots for
the burning
and she doesn't trust
anymore
but she still cries.
she hasn't cut her hair
but other things.
she's quieter now
less interested
something like subdued
abandoned well
deep and empty
and her thin fingers still
touch
but her opal dusk eyes don't
watch
i want you to ask me if
i am your fault if
you made me this way
i might not say yes
but i hope you'd care
to look hard at my face
and see the tear marks
and the anger and
the Hardness and the blame
and know that to you
i will always lie.
