Sparkatale

Can't you see her,
In trembling defensive stance
Grasping her ears,
Digging her nails in
Innocent skin and
Closing her eyes tight
Unwilling to open them again?

From the tears in her skin
Several reddened drops
Tracing down her fingers
And sliding to the floor,
An unseen symbol of how hard
She tries to block it out.

From her tightly closed windows,
Leaks have sprung somewhere
And two small drops of crystal glass
Make a journey down the curves
Of her face that bears no smile,
But the distortion of bewilderment
And confusion.
These drops will land without a sound
Upon her shirt, and they shall pass.
An untold story
Of willingness to speak and
Fear of daring to try.

Her little cell of isolation
Is without light, and she doesn't care
To turn it on.
There is no need presently,
And she's just too tired to walk that
Little distance.

What is it that this deranged girl
Is so afraid of that
She's wounded herself so?
Guilty wounds on an innocent conscience
Punishment undue for crimes undone
By a victim who won't accept the truth
That she puts it all on herself.

She confesses to another sin
And throws herself into prison once more
Shivering and aching,
Bleeding crimson drops of passion...
Showering crystal tears of genuine remorse.

And while the passersby may not notice,
They wonder why she won't clean up the trail
And curiously glance in direction of her sobs.
They shake their head and walk away, never
Hearing the explosions in nothing.