digging her fingernails into the walls to keep from falling, hands grasping at anything she can hold on to. shes tired of trying. lying, her hands are bleeding with all the secrets and pain she keeps. she can no longer weep, but sweep all of her burdens under the rug.
which is more like a tapestry...
of all her struggles that have been woven together, the good the bad and the uglier. a few strands of elegance that represent the pleasantness of the few good times in life she cherishes. but rugs are used to clean the bottom of dirty feet. so anytime there is a sign of hope, its muffled in defeat. smudged with the filth from gutter on the street.
her feet are tired from running, from walking, from standing, from life. yet she doesnt know when to stop going, or how. if the time was yesterday, tomorrow, or right now. so close to throwing in the towel, so far from innocence...
her hands are not ones of a young ladies, but more like a old mans hands after years and years of hard labor. she wont hold your hand, she embarassed of her scarred palms and bloody fingers. she cannot hide her pain, though she thinks she can. we see it in her eyes, in her smile..
with her presence you can feel her struggle. in her laugh you can hear her troubles..
you just have to listen really closely.
you just have to look really closely.