Sometimes it makes her feel *****,
flawed and everything bad.
As if she's nothing else
but all that.
A complusive, possessive,
control freak.
It makes her feel she's nothing
than a *****.
She looks herself in the mirror.
She looks in with that much anger.
Perhaps, she'd lost that ******* the road.
You make her feel convicted, like a ****** she wrote.
Like she's better off as an option
than to make her priority.
Perhaps, she plays better an option
than with much formality.
She didn't mean to pry,
she didn't force her way to interfer.
She only wished,
you could spare some time with her.
Perhaps, if you could,
just watch when she sits alone.
You might just see those saddened eyes,
hopeful yet forlorn.
She only pray that you might see,
her worth when she's still there.
Perhaps, it might just be too late,
when you decide this time you'd care.