Those petite fingers stroked my hair,
Many skinny, white threads painted my skin.
The cold, rough floor touches my feet when they're bare,
That's the way it's always been.
The clothes put on me came from a child's store,
Ripped off from my body when it's about to be used.
Feeling the darkness being absorbed,
When my self is left, torn, thrown, bruised.
All their eyes are on me, watching, praying.
My hands is moved up, trying to hold on, but,
Another body is attached, gruff hands planted at the sides.
The water washed away the make-up, but not the cut.
What's left to do?
What're they going to think?
Is there something to prove?
Have I said anything?
The pressure is added,
Just as predicted.
The pain is not subsided,
Just as expected.
The thin, white threads loosely fix their grip,
Those petite hands tore away the braids.
Grave, high, dangerous cause to flip.
Eyes shifting slightly, looking away by looking straight.
All their eyes are on me, watching, praying,
A mission was given, the make-up is put on.
The job is completed but the mask is fading,
What's left is not fond, not deep, only unknown.