I once met a girl who apologizes for everything she does.

As if her every move and every breath was a mistake; as if her whole existence is something to be sorry about.

She had hair darker than the empty night skies, and eyes that will haunt you even in your peaceful slumber.

When she was young, I later learned, her mother blamed her for every opportunities she lost and every dreams she let go. She was never called pretty; she was never treasured as a gift.

Her father made sure to leave scars on her. On her back was multiple scars of cigarette burns, her hands a map of mutilated lines, and her heart a million shattered pieces she needed to pick up. She became the living proof that even old men can hurt little girls.

She was made from regret and was born as one. She never needed words, she knew this even before she learned how to speak.

As a little girl, she never had a father to push her on swings; a mother to brush her hair every night and tell her how beautiful she would be one day.

She was like an old portrait hanging on the wall-- always there but was never noticed.
She was like a hidden gem, just waiting to be found.
She was a lost cause of this world.

With every words she said, there'd be a little whimper that sounds like, "I'm sorry."