There isn't a stir,
Dim light bathing the room in gold,
And she sits, staring out the window
The landscape a canvas she paints with her eyes,
Conjuring dreams from the mind to the beyond.
Demurely, lithe body turned,
The sound cracks her reverie,
Air leaking past her lips until there's
No more breath.
Yet her chest never feels so full, heart filled with panic,
Filling the expanse with every desperate beat.
She's told hello, told how lovely she looks,
And she takes the compliments with
A lady's grace that she's told to have.
Quietly, she'll move around, not speaking,
Though she's not usually so meek.
She's expensive, skin a porcelain so smooth
That she's the envy of many--unaware that fragility
Comes with high prices.
She's hit with a lampshade later in the evening,
Light casting her face in shadows as black spreads,
Mottling the flesh,
Knocking her back and teeth rattling
Like dead things in her mouth.
She'll cry in the dark when the sun and moon
Are halfway across the world, trying to breathe
Thinking she'll never be able to again.
There's a bruise--or two or three--kissing her face,
An ugly blotch on lovely mirrors,
Windows to the soul a blank slate,
A ripe fruit swollen and marred
Because it wasn't handled with care.
Hiding her eyes, shame-faced, she lets out shaky breaths,
Wrapping herself in warmer memories that dull the ache.
Before the dawn, she'll have it covered up,
Discontented but silently going through the motions,
More automatic than machine.
There's new promises leaving her lips,
Murmured only to herself and the walls,
Already broken since she won't do them.
They're as convincing as her face;
No one would be able to tell
That she'd been abused for the umpteenth time
In the privacy and comfort of her home.
And it's not that she doesn't want to scream,
Or weep, or run, or leave, or cry bloody murder--
Even commit it,
She just knows that there's a danger people don't understand,
That one false step could result in her life
Shattering to bits and crimson staining the tiled floors.
And that's scarier than one bruise--or two or three,
Like it's so, so easy to just become a ghost
And depart from the world where she's unhappy.
Life is never that simple.
But she wants it to be,
Where emotions run together,
Into larger, purer expanses,
And everything becomes a clear mass,
Allowing her to drown in relief,
Because life is simple again
And no one knows abuse.
Until then she sits with bated breath,
Aware of how priceless she is,
Unaware that she belongs to herself.