She flips her hair,
Sways her hips,
Piles on make-up
To hide her bruised lip.
If you look closely
you will see,
she has a
Limp.

A limp in her left leg,
From the stove
she was pushed into yesterday.
From the wooden spoon her mother used,
And broken glass
Still left in fresh wounds.

Her persona says b****,
but her actions scream help.

Emotions run ragged,
Friends nowhere insight.
Rumors spread; “She wasn’t alone last night..”

“Love stains soak her bed…” They said.

Skin: dark brown,
Hair: jet black,
Eyes are a deep maroon.
Lips: plum violet,
Nails: scarlet red.

Curves bruised,
Heart shattered.

Does her existence even matter?