She fluttered through
the playful sunrays and the mischievous wind
that played with her curls that hung down her back.
Her eyes glimmered as the sun struck them from a distance,
adding a mystic touch to her already mysterious gaze.
The world that appeared a horrid maze to me,
she saw through its haze and deciphered beauty in the dullest,
and felt on her earthy skin every speck and dust of joy and sorrow.
Yet, it made me blind to the purplish hues
that everyone noticed on her charming young face but ignored.
For when they saw her smile and laugh, hum and sing and dance,
they thought they did her no harm.
Because maybe it did hurt them to acknowledge themselves responsible
for the unknown misery she bore more under her skin to the depth of her heart
than was visible to eyes
that could see the dust under the sunlight,
but not her vibrant bruises and scars.

And when the wind so nonchalantly
blew her curls from her face,
I, too, then witnessed the deep blue blush that masked her flushed cheek,
and it appeared oddly unnatural to me.
The blackish hue under her eye,
no makeup trend it was, I felt assured.
It did give her a distinct sad and melancholy charm.
So I held her hand in mine,
to ask what gave her such an odd tinge,
for too eager I was to know what they were.
She hissed suddenly, and her face contorted,
and I was sure it was out of pain.
So I loosened my grip and looked at her wrist,
which was marked with red, as if prints of bloody fingertips.
I was sure it wasn’t mine, for I knew her too gentle to touch, as they told me
she was loved and sheltered by them,
that no grief and sorrow ever touched her.

Then it made me question
what happened to her face and what to her hand.
I noticed, as the questions rolled out of my tongue,
her eyes wandered forth, hither and thither,
avoiding mine,
and her lips failed to form words.
But sure did soon curl up into a smile,
so beautiful and enchanting that it almost...