She cries.
Not tears of sorrow, or loneliness.
She cries the pure essence of pain,
like some ****** extract of the harsh reality of life.
Her eyes are opened and with each blink she pops the bubble we live within,
beyond her years in sadness and hurt and beyond her beauty in hatred.

She smiles.
Not laughter from jokes, or satisfaction.
She smiles the broken fragments of hope and dreams,
each curve of her lips pressing the shards deeper into her skin as it rips open and the feelings she keeps under lock and key spill out,
dripping sweet red desperation onto already blood stained sheets,
and imagines a world where her eyes were not opened to what life really has to offer.