A Girl.

I know her. I am her.

Her eyes are the windows,
The way into her soul.
Her heart is slightly tattered,
Dissapointment dug a hole.
Her mind is something tortuous,
Filled with pleading cries.
Her lips are tight and pale,
Tired from forming twisted lies.
She wears a pretty mask,
Always plays pretend.
Confused by her own self,
She slowly learns to mend.