Within her fleshy walls resides a hollow soul,
Which abuse burrowed an empty hole.

You might have heard about her past,
Wondering why she's a self proclaimed outcast.

With her black make-up and stringy hair,
You're probably thinking she doesn't even care.

Her eyes but cold quick-silvered glass,
You may even think she has no class.

Her father stole her reason to share,
Her once fragile innocence lost somewhere.

You can  look at her with pity and shame,
But she believes she has herself to blame.

She carries this burden like a generous broach,
tattooed  to her chest, seen at approach.

To be kind, you shy away,
not quite sure what you'd say.

To comment just wouldn't do,
It implies you feel what she's been through.

So you politely turn away,
it's so much easier that way.

For if you look too deeply in her eyes,
It could be your reflection, in disguise.