She cries and she screams. Some find it funnier than it seems.

They point out the shape of her waist, pigment of her face, and history of her race.

What no one knew was that she had suffered enough. She lacked the sense of real love , but had more than plenty of emotional aches.

Overwhelmed by the eternal neglect and on-going sadness. Her hidden scars told her story. 

Words could no longer define the pain. The bruises were tattooed to her fragile body. Numb from her bruises, blind to happiness, tart to tears, and deaf to her own cry, she silently died inside. But what she couldn't see, was that she was beautiful to me. She was fully broken.