You stare at her glass-like eyes,
a window to her soul,
as thin as an old stained glass,
ready to break at any moment,
ready to let hurricanes and thunderstorms escape from within
and create blue seas.
You stare at them, but you don't stare at her,
at her bones and her veins,
and whatever is left from a -somehow- still beating heart.
You don't see the cuts on her wrists,
time has healed them.
But didn't you know? Time is cruel.
It may have shed a new skin over her scars
but she still feels the cold feeling of the blade,
and the memories of her blood escaping the warmth of her body
are as vivid as yesterday.
You stare at them,
but you don't see them,
you don't see her,
you see your altered version of her.
You see blue eyes and blonde hair on a person,
you don't see a person who happens to have blue eyes and blonde hair.
You examine her,
erase and re-draw her
until you're finally satisfied.
You call her pretty,
but pretty we call flowers and Christmas lights,
calling a person pretty is as superficial as reading a poem and saying you like the ink.
You stare at them,
but you actually don't,
you may see a white raven
but you painted her wings white,
she was in peace with her darkness all along.