I remember the way she looked,
Always dancing around to music only she could hear,
But her looks were deceiving to her personality.
She was strong,
She was a fighter,
But she looked like a rose petal,
Made of hand-spun glass,
But she was so much different from glass.
Glass was only beautiful because it reflected the light around it without distorting the truth.
She was like glass,
But she didn't reflect light,
She created it,
And she didn't distort the world,
She improved it.
Her thoughts were as pure as her heart,
Maybe that's a bad example.
Her heart was dirty,
Riddled with cancer,
A dirty window doesn't let light through,
And if it does,
It is cloudy and brown.
That is the unfortunate thing about glass though,
It breaks,
That wouldn't be so bad,
Only if it broke once.
But glass,
In all its beauty and purity,
The delicacy of its being,
It doesn't break,
It shatters,
And the shards slice into those around them,
Ruining the tattered stitching that held our fragile lives together.
She left us,
Fighting,
We didn't even know.
One day there,
Smiling through hidden pain,
And the other,
Gone.
I remember,
How could I forget?
