My heart is a canvas
painted with blue and purple.
Bruised.
As if the hand of society has
pierced me through my skin
and grabbed a hold of me.
I don't know how to pay attention
the world passes by me like a television show
a cartoon. 
I'm so transfixed by what is and isn't coming that 
I'm tipping.
Like a boat in the thunderous waves of my brain
and I know that if I don't pull myself out I'll drown in this world.
And everyday is spent wishing and hoping and praying
like a lost girl with a penny to go in the well.
My fingers are crossed so hard they're splintering at my wrist
And my veins are but roots holding me down.
Letting me grow.
It's hard to see my dad watch me fade away.
Like a helpless bug running from the shoe above.
How can he stand to watch his little girl crack in his palm?
Scarred wrists and bruised thighs are sure enough to make 
a grown man cry.
But daddy's baby isn't so small anymore
She wishes every day she was.
She see's herself as the elephant in the room
no matter where she may be.
The soft melody of my youth would play in my ears
Hush little baby, don't you cry.
But I'm not a baby anymore and my tears flow down like waterfalls
creating streaks in the sand dunes of my face.
Rolling fast and faster with no end.
No control.
I'm spending all of my minutes
etching away sandpaper patches in my skin
and painting the flesh with cheese grater blankets and nothing
but the color of my crimson blood dillutes my vision.
And my own body feels more like a gillotine than a gift 
these days. 
The world runs through me like cracks in a mirror.
I am a mirror the world broke.
Nothing but a destroyed reflection
aching my complexion
of what society does to a young girl.
Now and again I can feel myself lose focus
of what it all means to be alive
When my hopes and dreams should be sparkling 
they only decay with dust filling 
and fantasies of being dead.
The worst days are when they ask you why you feel this way
and all you can do is look at them like a lost puppy
hoping they can read the map in your eyes.
Because these days you have to be strong
Mommy's not here to fill up your tea cups and brush out your hair.
And the ink in your pen is running dry
because of the pulsating vocab that fills the lines.
Still to this day the bruises come  back
and it pains me to move,
I know I'm the one who did that.
But you can't judge what you can't see
You can't judge what you don't know.
And what you don't know
is alright.