She is made of glass
And her bruises are as obvious as spilled ink on thin paper
And her scars are not worn with pride but with shame
And at her centre is a heart of lead.
Not because she feels nothing
But because what she does feel is heavy,
Pressing on her soul like a weight
That grows faster than weeds in an untended garden.
This is what she has become;
She is made of broken glass
With jagged edges and sharp corners
That cut herself, but no one else
Because other people don’t want to touch her.
Her blood is scarlet, like everyone else’s
And she cries when she sees it
Because it’s a reminder of what she is supposed to be.
She is a window, shattered to pieces by people throwing stones
(She threw some of them herself).
But she looks up at the stars at night like the others
As she fumbles with the shards that no one else can piece together
And she understands finally that light cannot shine on a pale imitation,
A reflection of a girl in a piece of broken glass,
And so she paints herself black
And disappears.


this piece of work has been previously posted on my personal blog,

Published by Cat Branagan