Her fingertips were bruised,
and her ribs were lined with dust.
Beneath the bones, all but crushed,
lays a heart, broken but blushed.

Her eyes were left with tears,
that not all happiness was real.
She would bend and snap,
if, it was all still black.

Her lips were laced with blood,
and her teeth were spilling lies.
He didn't care for how she was,
he left her own her own.

"It can be my fault."
was her favorite lie.
It was down on her hand,
it was under her eye.

It was like a hurricane,
steadily growing worse.
How could such a good girl
be burdened with a curse?

She's waiting for a statue.
That is not the way.
She's crying on the staircase.
That is not the way.

Her collar is warn and breaking,
her elbow holds a crack.
She pretends not to notice,
that she's drowned in blue
and black.

She pretends she isn't falling.
That is not the way.
She's telling her friends she's okay.
That is not the way.

She wipes off her mascara
and the lines all down her cheeks.
This is not the way.

II.

She cleaned up the coffee table
and the rips in the brand new couch.
She watered the flowers he bought her,
but made sure nobody knew.

"That is not the way."
he said,
but she only shook her head.

She always said she didn't notice,
the darkness on her back.
She was sick of hearing,
what might be the way.

Her friends said she seemed
different,
because she didn't call them
on Saturday night anymore.
Why?

"Listen, this isn't the way."
he said it again like
suddenly she might hear him.

"It's all okay."
"You don't understand."
"This is the way."

He didn't take it and
instead he packed her bags.
He said he couldn't take it,
he wouldn't let her sink.

He stole her like a story,
and told her someplace else.
He didn't let any darkness,
capture her with madness.

He swore that she was fragile;
she said that she was strong.
Never for once in her life,
did she ever might think she was
wrong.

III.

Somewhere in the papers,
was a name with a dark face.
When she saw the headline,
she tossed it off the stairs.

Her friends has lost their contact,
and her mother had worried her head.
She ignored all of the letters,
and bathed in the light instead.

She looked at him like dreaming,
and saw the light again.
She always overlooked it,
but it was always him.

He served her with a smile,
and held her pink finger tips.
She told  him she was sorry,
and that she should have trusted him.
But he told her to never
say that again.