My mascara inked by hatered
with the brush of insanity, fill the space between fantasy and reality,

My cheeks run dry
but cower under the dirt of pink pain,
The sizzling brown swoop of screams hushes it to remain no more,

My jawline hisses at the knife
of straight perfection, Only to be silenced
by the beasts unwavering words,

Yet the innocent eyes that are high prized,
Are polluted with patterns of threats,
intwined by such ferocious whispers of
false truths,

And finally the freedom of gracious words,
covered, fenced, by a dark rose lust,
My lips torn and sewed whimper nothing but wretched waste,

The high lord speaks to it
Wants it to know the rights belong to him,
That is her woman’s face,
My woman face,
now no longer a virgin light
yet a slave for a man’s lusting nights


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