Her fists beat the ground,
The tears blinding her view.
No one wants this upset girl.
She's rolled over and used.
She belongs in an antique shop,
Hidden by novelty items and
Tarnished old furniture.
Her heart bleeds slowly
Onto her stained cotton dress,
Signaling her pain and conquest.
Her sad brown eyes look up at you,
Begging for love and mercy.
Her thoughts are frightening,
Filled with destruction and suicide.
She holds out her wrists as you pass by.
She shows you her scars leftover from time,
For they show her defeats..she did not die.
You walk by and she sighs, crumbling again.
Soon, the shop closes and gets locked up.
She sneaks to the knife display
And picks the lock with her stitched hands.
She takes the jagged one
And stabs it into her heart.
The next morning, the keeper sees his prize
And collects her, putting her in the trash.
Forgotten again..as usual.