She walks down the isle in her Sunday best
A picture flickers in the car window
And she stops to look at the refection
Hating everything to do with it
The person it portrays
The memories of only a woman
The memories that would make you think she is twenty-one
The body of the fifteen-year-old girl
The bright blue eyes reveling untold tales
The emotional pain and turmoil
The lust and desire her body screams
The wanting of a true man to hold her
The single dimple in the left cheek
The side of scars
The sets of six and four inflicted by her own hand
The ankle with the cross, made of scars which appears upon
The right side, is it pure?
The crusted blood from torn away skin
The trickle of blood she licks up
The lost eyes searching for a way out
The hellish nightmare she tends to live
The freckles down her arm
The memories of a man that they remind her of
The use of the freckles to hold her hand
The ring promising things that may never happen
Hating everything she sees
She looks away from the reflection
Disgusted by the picture
And she walks away in her Sunday best
To put up the mask of false lies that says she doesn’t hurt
And the clouded eyes that reveal nothing of her torment
She puts on the fake smile and turns to look
For the last moment of the broken girl she sees
That is no longer there

 
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