The Girl of Stone

There is this girl, made of stone.

Her every word weighted and hopeless.

Her every step timid and timeless.

She's afraid of the world. Afraid to be who she is.

Afraid to breath in her own skin.

She's been sculpted to be hard, to not feel like others.

But the weather and storms have scratched her once flawless stone.

Bugs and dirt have sought her cracks, whispering howling hatred to her fragile heart.

The people  who pass by have hit her stone with a bat, unaware that fissures are forming around her. But she never hated those people, never held them at fault.

She blamed herself, whispering in the dark "if only, if only".

If only she wore her heart on her sleeve.

If only her warmth was on the outside.

If only her sculptor had made her out of something softer and prettier than stone.

If only others could see how much love consumes her.

But persons don't love stone.

They hit it and wait to see it crack.

They pass by it and ignore it.

They hate stone.

Everyone sees the stone, but not the girl.

Everyone feels her coldness, but not her warmth.

Everyone sees her face, but not her eyes.

For she is just, the girl of stone.