They Fade

From red, to pink, to white.

 Each has a story, a name behind it, a memory, a feeling. 

Some heal faster than others, some are harder to hide than the rest. 

The grace of winter is that they can easily hide beneath layers of lace, of cotton, of angora and wool, and no one around her has a clue. 

She may one day tell you the truth, that it's embarrassing. 

It's shameful that some people let their emotions, their sadness and darkness spin so out of control, that a razor to the wrist seems like a valid option.

 Maybe it wasn't all her, I suppose you can blame the booze and the cough syrup, swirling around forming familiar demons in her brain and bloodstream.

 Everyone falls down, old habits die hard. But she's not proud. 

Sure, she holds on to hope, but at twenty years old, she's already seen much of the ugliness the world has to offer, and more often than not, it has been reflected in the mirror, looking back at her through loveless, bloodshot eyes. 

No, she's not looking for pity. 

She's searching for a face in the crowd that understands. 

Someone that has known this pain and conquered it, someone who can love her despite her ever present flaws, the most obvious being those that appear like the rungs of a ladder on her right arm.

 But everyone who has ever searched for something with all that they are knows the weariness that grows deep in the heart, like a cancer, eating and devouring it's host.

 And yet, every day, she wakes up, cleans and dresses the wounds, curls her hair, paints her signature cat eyes across her eyelids, drapes her lashes in coats of mascara sending them high towards her perfectly constructed brows, and puts a smile on her face for the world to see. 

The world she lives in does not stop for heartache, for hopelessness or depression. 

She can't give in to it. 

The worst of the feelings may be over, but in moments where she lets the walls around her mind and heart down, they flood back at an alarming speed. 

If she manages to catch it soon enough though, she can inhale the burning of smoke deep into her lungs, and feel the warmth of the sun, and rationalize that her world could be much, much worse.

Author's Note

I know it doesn't rhyme or have a steady flow. But that's not what it is all about.