The sadness in her eyes is escalading forgotten hours,
hours slowly turning into a trailer of days, then months;
her heart is acting as a string accompaniment to her sorrow.
Cherry blossoms were signs of love,
now she finds them buried, and footprints
are no longer carrying them across.
When will depression stop moving her downwards?
She's been neglected, a woman unclaimed, unidentified.
Not even her family knows where she was born
or how bruises started speaking history on
her soulless back.
And nothing anyone can say will change her mind.
It's been made up.
Staring at letters not yet written, but already locked
with goodbyes...
lips no longer blood red, she can barely remember
the last moment she blushed, or when color
collected itself on skin.
Lasting only until the cold can confess what
it's done, she walks past forests on her way home,
wondering why all the greenery had to pale,
why sunlight is no longer captured,
for when did her palms become cutting boards
and not places to run hills?
She gazes at a snow laden sky.
Everyone has lost sight of her purpose.
How can she convince herself it is there?
Roller coasters are in the distance of
the roads she treads upon; merry-go-rounds
and amusement rides never ridden before.
She traces them absent-mindedly,
everything has become solely bones
unable to be printed again upon her
sketchbooks.....
emotions are fading and soon,
she won't have to feel the velvet
sting of heartache.
Will somebody think of her
when her last cry has been released?
Or will she simply fall like petals
from a past unmarked, and a heart
fighting for remembrance?
She cups cherry blossoms in her hands,
sniffing them delicately, letting them rest
on her wrists.
This will be the last time that beauty
will be framed this way.
