Junkyard Roses

Ghosts of unshed tears carve a burning path down her skin. She feels. She thinks she feels. Sadness, regret, injustice, the impotence of no control. Not then, at least. Others cry, let free marked misery of loss. What loss? Innocence? Something missing, so long gone from her grasp. She cannot recall it.

Stereotypical torn soul. Pathetic, grasping, insecure. Leads, never follows. Following means giving up control. Precious control. She exists alone, an inhabitant of her own mental prison, unable to break. Breaking creates cracks in a carefully constricted wall of glass. Too many cracks, and she will shatter.

Words spill from her fingers, splash like blood across the page. Stained and dirty. Recurring, never finished.