She
hid behind rose-tinted glasses.
They
served perfectly as curtains that hid panic and diverted betrayal. She
wore them well, but with more dependence than proud ownership.
People
used her to get ahead, and, to keep the scars quiet, she convinced herself she
was doing a good thing, being useful and gaining value. Despite her efforts,
though, their own truth bled through.
Scars
talk. Wounds ramble on. And blood cries out.
She
quit fighting and let them dress her in their massive, crusty cloak. Nothing
quite fit, but it's all she had been offered.
At the
corner of “No One Knows” and “Nobody Cares,” she walked around with the
blood of innocents dripping from her fingertips. Each drop fell like tears from
that seemingly-vacant world outside her own, leaving crater-sized marks in
history.
Sliding
an oversized sleeve over her arm, she raised a hand to her face and pushed her
glasses up snugly...
One came and saw her through a pair of crimson lenses. The Father asked, “When will she know,
when will someone tell her? She is covered in the Blood of Love.”
You
are covered in the Blood of Love.
