The blood was on her hands.
It was her that broke her own flesh
Through the mirror's shards
The mud puddles called her eyes mocked her
They bore through flesh and bones
And condemned her heart
She only followed through with what it saw…
Months later, the girl is alive
After thrown out pills
And a mopped up heart
She has been purged through a sacrifice
And many lessons taught…
She never once believed the lie,
That things in life were truly free.
Maturity is not free.
Freedom is not free.
Love is not free.
Everything was paid for in one way or another
The price for her freedom was bloodied razors
The price for her maturity was abuse
((verbal and sexual))
And lastly the price for love was nail scarred hands
And a crown of thorns
No, nothing is free.
Now her sweater covers her battle scars
And her weakness covers her maturity
Her fate was in her hands
And so was her blood
But has since been
-washed a. w. a. y.-
The pure sacrifice from rusty nails
And splintered wood has set her free.
In her "perfection"
No one notices the blood
That has been washed
but's scent still lingers to remind her
Because if her history was to be forgotten
It would be repeated.
Now with her mirror broken
((the mistake she made awhile ago
the one that bloodied her hands))
She has learned that people are
Perfect in their weakness