If you touch her, even softly, you might cause her to break;
for she is porcelain, made of hopelessness, despair and heartache.
Her soul is destroyed, her bones are heavy and her determination is crushed;
the fire in her eyes has been extinguished and even her quietest whisper has been hushed.
There are explosions of blue, green and purple that litter her legs and thighs
and crimson slits that lace her skin; all of which she makes while she sits and cries.
She’s exhausted in a way that cannot be fixed by sleep,
for the darkness that smothers her is in her veins and runs far too deep.