A girl, pale, her make-up smudged,
Clothes ripped, tired as hell,
Walking down the street,
A solitary figure,
The sun rising behind her.
Her face is wet with tears,
But if there's no one to see her cry,
Then it must be alright.
But it's not,
And she knows it.
She climbs in through her window,
Scraping her knees on the way inside.
She won't change her clothes yet,
Not quite ready, she feels,
To survey the full extent,
Of the damage done to her body.
Her previous feelings of ecstasy,
Have been gone, for at least 2 hours now.
Her legs crumple from beneath her,
As she tumbles onto her bed.
As soon as her head hits the downy pillow,
Her eyes shut, she doesn't dream.
And she can remember nothing.
When she awakens the next morning,
Her eyes are sore and crusty,
And she reaches over to turn on the light.
It blinds her, and she runs to the bathroom,
Bending over, excruciating pain,
Fills her stomach, and she throws up.
She stands up and pulls off her sweatshirt,
Looks down, and starts to cry,
As she finally sees the bruises,
And remembers it all.
