She lived in an old house…
A house that was too old and wise to hold a chrysalis like her
Because maturity was waiting in the trenches
She would make mold of something new

To hold the lack of pride hidden behind her locked doors
She’d turn the crisp page in a book
Finding herself in a world of independent thoughts
Losing herself in her own

She speaks in strangled whispers
Cries to herself
When nobody will hear
Because she is sick of being surrounded

She was bruised but not broken
Tired but would not sleep
In pieces but whole
Ten years old and running to twenty

Oh and things were not meant to be this way
Kisses and ballet were hers
But the chemicals in her veins were not
She was worn and jaded

Flowing brown hair and burnt sienna eyes
Watched masks of a mother float above her
As she first made love
Tears would soon have no choice but to break through

The greatness among her was falling down
Her core was tender and wounded
Her weeping would not cease
And her pain was endless

For when a chrysalis becomes a butterfly
The steps taken will damage it beyond repair
She fell too far to come back up
And she will never fly

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