Her with her demure smile.
Quiet.
You couldn’t imagine a word she’d say.
Wholesome.
Modest.
She carries herself like there were pins under her feet.
Her posture was skyscrapers sweeping the clouds.
If you opened her up, you’d think she’d open like a lily on a spring morning.
Incandescent floral tissue paper fragrant with roses.
Her insides would be paper maché and origami.
How you’d imagine the star student’s notebook,
Heart dotted i’s, highlighter for every section, cursive that told you love stories.
Elegant.
Voice, a symphony of every beautiful thing you could imagine.
Songbirds, an ocean wave, the wind through summer leaves.

But instead, you maybe, wonder.
You wonder what those glossy doe eyes and muted smile hide.
Maybe,
Cut her open and find a scatted mess.
Instead of love letters, you find suicide notes.
And needles and razors where there should have been flowers.
A rainbow that bleeds out into a bloody disarray.
The overwhelming pungent smell of regrets.
Evenings spent out too long, a concoction of cologne of 1000 lonely men, cigarettes and whiskey from every night before.
Her voice a multitude of no’s belting out from the depths of jumbled pieces.
I’d imagine she’d ooze out in the most hideous way.
Nothing pretty behind the cage of her demure smile.
Innocent eyes that hide the depth of painful memories.
That smile becomes the plug confining every sharp and awful thing inside.
Until one day, she lets it tear through her delicate skin.
So finally,
The world can see the ugly they’ve done.