she looks up and sees clouds,
fluffy and white,
like the spots on her nails,
streaks of clouds like the marks on her legs and thighs,
water trickles like the silent tears on her rosy cheeks,
the bright color which gives her a youthful glow,
though she looks this way- her youth is far behind her,
she's stuck,
trying to make sense of her past,
while planning ahead
aligning her thoughts in a garden of both flowers and weeds,
she collects objects in the hopes of them distracting her from the truth,
she's a kid forced to grow up too fast in a world that can't hear her story,
who would want to hear her sob story?
she'll grow up to be another statistic,
but for now she'll silently tend to the garden of her thoughts