It goes up in white clouds
Grouped individual but one
Every pat-pat against the face
Blows as powder
And shows as flower
She winces when it blows her
Its function is to hold her
When in public from the unknowing
Who would otherwise console her
She dabs down on brown
And slides it over evenly
There are grooves and bumps
She smoothes per touch
Careful, as she whimpers out ‘ouch’
She traces her eyes with black ink
Her lips were more to her skin
Now they part ways
Covered in red paste
Her brown locks recovered with a pin
She’s of many colours
That she masks with great skill
And though she mainly covers
In her eyes the pain still
She may tweek her cheeks
to a rosy blush
Veiling any streaks
with a cosy hush
No one could ever see
So they could never ask
Thus hiding any speak
of an unholy touch
That touch had her to the floor,
And to crimson knees
Defensive arms crossed
Begging for reprieve
Her crime she knew not
Her love as true as God
But she couldn’t understand
Why his eyes were green…
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