She Looked at Me

She looked at me every day; the happy face that I first saw was pure joy and I held it in each of my hearts. I had to, because that delight I first saw, that I loved, soon disappeared. At first, it was replaced only by a sadness behind her eyes, it was subtle, her smile was still there but she had lost a little of that genuine joy.

Although it slipped away slowly, one day, whatever joy she still had must have been torn away from her and turned into something else, fear; just before the sun rose one morning, she looked at me. Her face was misshapen, like a cracked porcelain doll, and black as a storm-laden sky, each of my hearts wept for the pain I saw there. I truly believed that this would be the last time I would see her, that she would leave; sadly, she wasn't strong enough. After that day, I often saw that same broken face, so different from the laughter-filled one that looked at me with such hope.

They are moving me now, taking me to a new place, hopefully, a happier one. It has been several weeks now since things changed; I've been dusted for fingerprints, swabbed, stared at, but nobody asked me what happened, well, why would they. They've now wiped away the blood, I'm as good as new, apparently; however, they cannot wipe away the story that's held within my broken hearts, a story that of course I'm not able to tell.