Musings

Shell

She is burnt
She is beaten to a pulp
She is broken beyond recognition
She is tired
She is exhausted 
She breathes, she's an abomination 
She blinks, she's an inconvenience 
She exists, she is an afterthought 

If her heart were made of paper she'd be ripped to shreds 
If her soul was stone, she'd be pulvarised to dust 
If her mind were a cloth, she'd be ripped apart, flimsy and fraying

Her eyes are an ocean run dry
Her fists are stiff and brittle and bloody
She is a shell of who she used to be 
Her life is pain 

Consistent
A cycle 
Never ending
It hurts to live in her body