Wildling eyes, she had…
They were fierce with power, and coated with fear.
Broken and dirty finger nails, the hands of a fighter, they said.
Removing her clothes, piece by piece, the marks of her identity are telling her story better than she would have.
Cut open and sewn together by unpracticed hands.
Broken from the inside out, without ever hearing the words, “Here let me help you”
She grew up broken, and learned to walk up right, with limbs barely straight enough to carry the weight.
Her world does not smell of roses and Sunday afternoon lemonade.
No, she knows the smells of dirty dogs and filthy alleys.
She was used and abused for just being born into the skin she was in.
But if you look closely, you’d see…
She forgave everything, everyone and she knew once this life was over the better one will be what she never even dreamt of.
She had faith, she believed.