Knife

She once had soft, delicate skin, A complexion of pure and bright, With long silky locks draping her curves, Her glow was an elegant sight, Until those thoughts of hurt and destroy, Those thoughts she could not defend, Talked every part of each quiet day, Talked like a ghost in her head, About how she’d be more, better than now, Be more than a doll on the rack, By landscaping herself under her clothes, To a beauty that’s a little abstract, So she worked with a knife, a blade made of steel, She punished her skin in a war, Until her battle scarred arms, legs, hips and thighs, Shed her ghost down to the floor.