Everyone knows her because everyone needs her. She can always be found awaiting the truth. She will listen and wait as people paint pictures and create music from their words. She never betrays any emotion but even when she is not smiling her face is still kind. Even the scars that cover her skin are beautiful. She holds herself high in shimmering slippers and a cream dress. Her caramel skin and black shield that protects her most valuable asset. She is the perfect model, and stellar human. So alive and soft. People can’t help but trust her. She knows where she came from and knows she is loved. She treads with light steps and shining eyes that glint in the dark. She was young when she started to keep to herself, she was young when people found her as a new friend. She was young when her family pushed her into the world of stars and sun.
The place of her mind in the meadow is where she resides. Doves and wild flowers, calls and scents filling the morning air. The small cliff covered in smooth stones and sun showered moss, drops down to the teal bubbling water of the sea. The light breeze flowing through the tall grass and tan sand. She lays in the yellow stalks and salt tainted air. She can never be alone, never has the chance to have a day to herself. Holding and grasping to save him and help her. Trying to keep the children safe, she bears the gift of a protector. And the warmth of a person. The silent secret holder. The key to the truth, held with a steady lock.
She lets her peers tell her of the torture and pain she has never had to endure. But the second hand fear of a hundred stories packed into one body brings the tears over the rims. And the scars on her face grow deeper as the water slices her cheeks. On the silk sheets and crystal glass she breaks over and over again, in the most beautiful photo. The most trustworthy of humans, lies until she believes her fibs. Believes the tales of an angelic girl that lets all in to place their stories on her, as she learns and collects from the world. It all started as a collection, her mind started as a vessel that harbored highs and lows, climaxes and downfalls of which entertained her for days. But now the everlasting scenes that rewind in her head ever so often stiffen her limbs and prey for her tears. The dull ache and stabbing daggers her constant companion. And she has no one to tell, no one to love, only people that love her.