Has Violet Eyes.
She stains her lips red
And lines her eyelids black.
Her hair is dark blue.
her eyes were made
The lilacs that her mother raised
In her garden
Before her death.
Every day as release therapy
Uses her face
As a palette too
Says its better than using her body
The way she used to
Says its better to beat her face this way
Instead of the way he used to
Says its makes it easier to remember the way
Her lips would look
When she bled.
Less painful this way…just painting them red.
She remembers this way.
Everything up in a row
Is still secretly afraid to leave
Anything out of place
Swears that she will turn around and see him
Towering above her
Ready to strike
If she dares to leave on the bathroom light
Wakes up in the middle of the night
Trying to protect her face
She still lines
From trying to hide bruises that have long since faded away
Is dark blue
From all the memories she held deep.
In her mind
She’s a patchwork quilt of her very own life
But to the naked eye.
She’s just outlandish.
She tells me
When we’re sleeping
That she always liked the irony…the notion
Of wearing your heart on your sleeve.
But she would never want to say anything…
She whispers that a tattoo might be next