Her hands are rusty as she grasps the sheet;
A forbidden silk engulfed in deepened red.
Too weak to scream but strong enough to
Prevail in her own demise.
She lifts and waves it across a luring eye,
Calling the beast to the feast that is her,
Offered up on a platter of cheap,
Used and battered silver.
His tide withdraws out for miles,
Revealing the secret caves and
The truths behind the closed shades
Of her twelve year old bedroom.
Polluted sands reign beneath the pure
Blue hue of her ocean eyes.
Collections of every small droplet of water
In the air of her past combine together
Into a perfidious blurred cloud of blackened oil,
Consuming her into a sick dishonest truth.
She only knows how to be charged by bulls,
In a ring where there is no audience,
But rather a sea of people with their backs turned.
Thumping, trotting, galloping feet on the ground,
The sound of horns penetrating into skin,
A small whisper of soft, unwarranted apologies,
Like a tree’s remorse for the man with the axe,
As he stabs the wise oak in the middle of the forest.
If every set of selfish eyes ignores her cries for help,
Is the horned villain even hurting her at all?
Her feet dig into the earth like a cemented foundation,
As she swears to rise with every fatal blow,
Until the day a head slowly turns,
And ends the torcherous show.