Sparkatale

In the corner
Sits a shaking mass—
Human form—
See it shudder
Just beyond the light there?

The floor around it
Littered
With crumbled wads of
Paper
Stained multiple colors:
Crystalesque blue,
Rusted, metallic red,
Cold and stony black.

The face on the human,
It smiles and cries
In a twisted harmony
Of miserable joy
Tells itself it's happy here
Sitting in its little corner
Isolated from the rest
Watches life through tightly
Closed window.
Soundproofs the walls
Dares not announce the cries
And shouts
Of anger and hurt
When the whip cracks down
Again.

Go ahead and lash out,
Take your whips and
Your belts,
Slice the air with your
Aggression
And wound its body with your
Demands.

The mass won't dare protest.
The body wouldn't dare resist.

Instead it retreats to its
Little hole in the wall
Screeches in a near demonic wail
Throws its happiness
Against the wall

The glassy shattering
Of somebody else's feelings
Goes silent.
The immense pain
Of somebody else's emotions
Is never noticed.
The cries of misery
Of somebody else's desires
Untold.

But you must be happy,
This shuddering body insists.
For she is happy...

She puts on her smiles,
Wears longer sleeves,
Applies makeup to her face,
Puts on a grand facade.
Anything for you.

Happily wounded, she will be.