She layed there in silence and never uttered a single sound.
Now that it was over, all she wanted was just to dig it out.
So she dug. At her arms. At her legs. Pulled her hair and scratched her face.
She muttered to herself. It’s my fault. I am tired. I am upset. I am weak.
I could have stopped him. Why didn’t I? Now I’ll always feel like some sort of a freak.
So she screamed in her head all of the things she could have stressed.
No makeup. No dress up. No smiling. No laughing. To be total mess.
She doesn’t feel now. She doesn’t hurt now. She’s a wreck now. She’s emotionally dead.
Who can help her? No one can. All she does is think of death, of the silence in her head.
Spread her ashes across the forest, on the mountains, over the sea.
Then she might be happy, then she won’t feel sorry, because then she might be free.