July 24, 1938

I dare you to look into my eyes, to see past the shards of my broken soul. God only knows what you might find.

She’s beautiful in that fragile,

B r o k e n 

Way.  

She’s the kind of person who you can just stare at.

Not because of her strawberry hair, 

-- Or those indigo eyes.

It is none of these things which define her

(that girl in the mirror)

One look past those shuttered eyes is all it takes.

Like a maple, she is hard and tough on the outside, but simply tap her core, and

She  p o u r s right

Out. 

:MB:

‘Hey there, sweetie,’

She just smiles winningly, swaying 

-- those hips

as she passes.

Dumbstruck gazes follow her, reaching beneath that short skirt and tight top, auguring her core.
(attempting to, at least)

Does she let them?  Of course not.

She’s too afraid of what they (she?) might 

Find.

Men are easy, she says laughingly.  Brilliant teeth

G l I t t e r I n g

In the sunlight.

They’re like dogs.  As dumb, too.  A sweet (?) laugh erupts from her throat 

(heaving chest, flying hair)

And nobody dares disagree with her, because she is 

So

So

Beautiful.

(and 

so

so 

b r o k e n)

:MB:

The driveway is wide, neatly trimmed, jewelled oaks and 

Red roses

Line the path.  Why is she coming here?  She doesn’t know.  The place of her pain.

The manicured lawn that she bled all over

(her blood is everywhere these days)

That beautiful, designer home.

(thick drapes that hide screams and broken skin)

An endearing smile twists crimson lips, as pain pours from behind her eyelids.

She reaches the turnaround that precedes the home,

But she just 

CAN’T

Make it any farther.  Does it have anything to do with that 

Pain

In her chest?

(the shattered state of her soul?)

She turns the SUV around, tires

S p I n n I n g,

Gravel flyingggg.

But where will 

It 

-- land?

:MB:

They all say she’s oh so lovely.  Men, women, old, young.  So why is it that believing them is just

So hard?

Nearly two decades, she has walked this Earth.  Living, breathing in sync with 

plants

animals

(people?)

It may seem like that, when you

S t a r e 

From afar

(at her pretty hair and 

sparkling eyes)

But looking u p close?

Don’t make me laugh, she says.

Her smile is bright, and her voice happy,

But you can see the pain that she tries

(and fails)

to hide.

You can see it and you hate it.

Why? You ask.

She takes a  h e a v I n g  breath as she shakes her head,

(that golden hair flying)

and you wonder, where does pain fit into this halo of bright white purity?  Where does it 

hide?

No one has gotten close enough to try.  Her smile

Falters.  No one except him.  

With that last syllable, her face seems to fracture in front of your very  e y e s.

(You can see her soul).

And suddenly, she is a child.  A girl of fourteen, with nothing but bruises on her body

{and suicide in her eyes}.

:MB:

 Sometimes, on days like this, when the wind is vicious, squalid and 

Ripping, simply

T e a r I n g 

Her  a p a r t. 

The sky is an aged grey

(as grey as she is)

Beautiful in an avant garde, pretentious sort of way, but not in a real way.

If there’s anything she has learned in this life she’s lived, it’s in this world,

REALITY

Is all that

Matters.

When the raindrops pebble around her, she knows.

She can feel the wetness of her darkened hair, the drops sluicing down her ashy skin,

But on the other hand, she really c a n ’ t.

In fact, she cannot feel anything at all anymore.

Not since him.

Instead of drops, they are caresses

Instead of hard bricks of wetness, they are

him.

With a shiver, she yanks her coat tighter around herself,

Feeling the way fingers, cold as sleet, stroke her soiled skin.

The way he touched her on those cold, cold days (nights?).

Malicious blocks of ice

Sharp as razors

Slice open the skin of an innocent

Is she really that innocent anymore?

Blood, so virginal and sweet drops on to the hard concrete floor

Joining all the other blood (hers, and others?)

All of this she remembers

(just because of the rain)

and she can feel him in her bones, his constant heavy pressure.

But even the fact that he will neverever leave her, even though she so desperately fights him, is not what keeps her

W I d e  a w a k e

On those cold, sleety nights.

No.

It’s her remembering, remembering the way 

he made 

her 

love 

h I m.

That, is what hurts the 

M o s t.

:MB:

She is happy.

(at least she should be)

She has friends.  Family.  A job and a nice car.

All she has to do is show up at a party, and she is the envy of

Every girl in the room.

So why is it that she feels like every breath is one too many?

Why is it that she feels so 

B r o k e n?

She still wakes up in the middle of the night, a

Scream

On her lips, ready to escape.

She doesn’t let it.

She doesn’t allow herself any freedom at all.

No screams, no emotions,

No tears.

Not since him.

She has cried enough tears, and screamed enough screams, to last 

a n y o n e

a

lifetime.

Hello, beauty.

She can hear his voice in her head.  

Is she crazy?  On of those schizos that they show on TV?

No, sweetie, you’re not that kind of crazy.  You’re just in love.

Crazy in  l o v e.

With who?  Who could possibly fill the gaping hole in her chest 

(the place where her heart should be) 

left by

Him?

Who?  Who are you?

Why love, don’t you recognize me?

No.

I am him.

With a scream 

(one that she does not let escape), 

She shakes her head so 

Vigourously that she can feel everything shake around her.

(Golden hair flies.

Fists clench, unclench, and clench again).

This vicious cycle has become her life.

:MB:

Looking up into the night sky,

B R I G H T

stars twinkle at her, mocking her with their wicked light.

Cerise lips

m 

o

v

e

as slivers of her become

one.

Thank you, she says.

Thank you 

for 

ruining 

me.

Author's Note

Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.