Tiptoe

She stands
And leaves the room
Without a sound.
Had I not been watching,
I would not have noticed her go,
As silent as a ghost
And as pale as porcelain.
But alas, her soul is black.
Her smile is wicked.
Her eyes are keen,
Shining the colour of steel
Reflected in the blue sky of day.
A stubborn mind,
A spiteful tongue.
There is so much to loathe.
Indeed, I often ask myself
How I can see past it all
To the good she rarely shows.
Especially when her voice - the voice
Of one I love -
Is the voice inside my head,
That says that I am
Disposable and worthless.