She walks down the hallway,
Her long, blonde hair swaying with
The movements of her body.
The guys gawk,
Her full lips any of them would willingly kiss.
The girls are filled with envy,
As green as her eyes.

What they all don’t see behind that
Makeup and polish is
A hollow cylinder,
A hollow cylinder that things pass
Through and through.
Memories of a mother’s death,
A father’s beating.
Memories of nights and nights
Of crying and crying,
Until she can no longer cry,
And falls asleep,
Empty.

She walks down the hallway,
Her short, black hair covering
Her entire face,
Her inner beauty blacked out by
Her dark clothes.
She carries this journal,
That has the most beautiful writings
And illustrations they will ever see.
They will never see.

What they don’t see behind that
Hair and clothes is,
A flower spring waiting to be unleashed.
Butterflies fluttering,
And flowers blooming.
It’s only a matter of time before they are,
Flying and flying.
It’s only a matter of time before she is,
Flying and flying.
It’s only that that keeps her holding on.