They stand in a line.
Numbers pinned to their underwear.
They call and dismiss.
Examining each.
I grimaced at the sight.
This sight of flawed hearts.

The sound of clicking heels filled the room.
High hopes formed in their young minds.
The poor innocence unknowing of the pessimistic ending occurring.

Ribs peeking through their snowy skin.
While the girls slowly stumble and crumble apart.
The glimmer in their bright eyes diminishes.
Out of two-hundred, six are passed.
Those six are now lost, hungry.
In search of a happiness.
Only finding an abundance of broken, soft souls.

It's too late though.
It's too late for these innocence to be saved from this pessimistic ending.
This ending that only has left them as property.
Property's misguided roses.