Soul Speaker

Her mother walks in through the door.
Her mother yells about the mistake of having such a child.
Her mother laughs about the child's failures.
She slams the door after her mother's retreating figure.
She slams the door on love.
She slams the door on hope.
The air drops negative degrees.
The air tangles with her curly hair.
The air bursts with cruel vengeance.
She throws a punch at the unforgiving wall; only too late does she remembers the promise she made.
She throws another punch but at her pillow; she knows the pain will not reach her here.
She throws herself upon the floor; she is numb by this point.
Turning around, she desperately looks for an escape route.
Turning around, she swears she smelled his sweet innocent scent.
Turning around, she falls to her knees in a beg for mercy.
Crying out, she sees the picture of them upon her desk.
Crying out, she snatches the picture and drives it through with her bare fist.
Crying out, she gently picks up the photo and kisses the jagged glass upon his cheek.
Picking up the broken glass, she clutches it in a death grip in her hand.
Picking up the broken glass, she holds her hand out over the seventeenth story window of her apartment.
Picking up the broken glass, she lets the glass fall to the ground in the pretty pattern that glass falls in.
She wonders if she'll ever fall in such grace.
She wonders if she'll ever use her right hand again.
She wonders if she'll ever see him again.
The mirror taunts her.
The mirror shows her blatant honesty.
The mirror is too bright for her to see.
Looking at her reflection, tears stain her smooth cheeks.
Looking at her reflection, she is blinded by hate.
Looking at her reflection, she shatters the glass into a million sparkling pieces.
The glass falls all around her.
The glass falls upon her face and leave a signature of red.
The glass falls but still reflects a million more honest copies of herself.
Empty is the will she used to have.
Empty is the hollow heart of hope.
Empty is the air as she falls from seventeen stories.
Glorious is the thrill of wind against her skin.
Glorious is the thrill of speed out of control.
Glorious is the thrill of the blessed end.