Stars were held in her eyes and flowers grew in her soul.

She enjoyed singing out loud on car rides and preached about self-control.

She loved long nights and had a wild personality.

She was the girl that you couldn’t help but love, who helped everyone around her.

She held a morbid fascination and saw the beauty in art and literature.

She use to say that we are but machines born to die, machines that must learn to love and be humble before we can be rebooted into the real universe.

It wasn’t her beauty that drew me to her, rather little things.

The way her lips would curl when she smiled or the way the sun shone on her through the window and made her hair look like a forest fire.

I would play connect the dots on her back while she slept silently beside me. Tracing each of her freckles.

A broken girl with smeared mascara lines and heavy eyes once stood before me.

Tears streaming from those eyes that once held every shade the sky possessed from dawn until dusk.

It was more than crying, it was the kind of desolate sobbing that comes from a person drained of all hope.

Her programming wasn’t meant to learn about all the pain she went through.

As I stand over her open casket, staring down at those eyes that once could make sunsets and galaxies jealous; now dark and lifeless.