This is what happens.
Or, moreover: what can;
when a woman is broken,
by the hands of a man;
these are the facets
that the light reflects through;
our many faces of torture,
that somehow still smile on que;
we sit on display in a window
it’s all that we know how to be;
like a sideshow in a traveling circus,
to glimpse us tells a million stories.
It’s a scale that is constantly sliding
tipping from and to either end;
unsure of which side that our weight will land,
until it balances itself out once again.
You’ve got the face of the innocent, young and naïve
aside of the broken down masochist, who can’t get up from her knees;
you’ll see the ancient and calm – next to the kamikaze lovebomb,
we have every archetypical matriarch and fawn, here for you to see.
We are each so different, yet exactly the same
our memories are singed with torturous pain;
yet we’ve accepted that we are each as much to blame,
as the demons that left us with scars in our skin.