They say a girl becomes more beautiful with each heartbreak.
If that’s true, she must have suffered a million.
Each shard from her heart sculpts her face into a more treacherous beauty,
But leaves her with broken slivers of a heart that can no longer love.
She is a frail thing. Too fragile to touch or mend.
She must hold still. She can’t move forward. She can’t hug back when he holds her.
He hurts for she does not embrace him back; he walks away. She can’t move; she can’t speak. She wants to call out but is afraid she’ll break. A single tear slides down her cheek.