I could tell from her silence
that she wasn't fit for speaking to many people.

I could tell by the way she shakes
that she hasn't gotten much to eat recently.

I could tell by her sleeves slipping back
that she wasn't always shattered there.

I could tell from the ink on her hands
that she was always in a world she tended to invent.

I could tell from the way she rubbed her eyes
that she was forgetful of the black rimmed there,

and I could tell by the black
that she wanted nothing more than to be beautiful.

I could tell from the fault lines across her forehead when she wrote
that it was what she loved most of all.

I could tell by the cover of almost torn from her notebook
that she took it with her wherever she went.

I could tell she searched for love
but I could tell she was afraid of finding it.