Words That Tell No Story

The Dead Among The Living

Behind the casket door,

A deep red mahogany gloss shine,

Embellished with silver details,

Lies the body of one,

Eyes,

Ears,

Mouth,

Heart,

All closed to the world.

But yet she breathes,

Slow and concentrated breaths,

To show there is still life,

Inside the cold, broken and dead host cell,

That is the girls' body.

A body that was torn apart,

Beaten and bruised,

By those around her,

And put on display,

To show the artwork of others.

Her story,

A dance told in segments.

Segments of body parts,

Intermissions of searches for air,

For reason,

For hope.

A dance of the dead,

Staged among the living.

A look at the delicate body,

Laying lifeless in her best fashion,

Tells most of a secretive life.

Though for those brave enough to explore,

Her lifeless body tells the story,

Of her death to the world,

While still alive and breathing.

Opening the casket door slowly,

The room still with anticipation for what they will see.

Light hits her fragile skin,

Gleaming down on her fair color and flawless skin.

Her pink lips part slightly,

As she takes a sudden, deep breath.

Deep enough to assume it to be her first breath of life.

Her lungs expand with a fresh dose of life,

Sending oxygen through her body,

Springing her eyelids open,

Revealing the aqua blue ocean hidden within.

She blinks quickly to adjust to the violating fluorescent lights.

Her hands, placed left over right,

Begin to twitch and move again.

Moving robotically, she tries her arms.

Placing her hands on the walls of her casket,

She uses any reserved strength to sit herself up.

Bending her knees slightly for balance,

Her dark brown-red hair falling forward,

Flowing like a wave over the curves of her shoulders.

Before anyone can stop her,

She climbs out of her casket,

Walking away from her examiners,

Back into the open world.

Dead to the world, yet still alive.

Leaving everyone in awe,

Of how she is still breathing,

When life should not exist for her.

A closer look and one would see,

That she is viewed as the walking dead.

Her pants cover the bruises,

The scratches and violations that occurred below them.

The events that stripped her of her innocence.

The pain that made her close her guard tighter.

Yet she walks like nothing happened,

Not letting everyone see the damage cause by,

Her "lovers" and those uninvited.

Her hands balled into a fist,

Nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms,

Holding herself together with a hint of pain,

Keeping her past held inside.

The scars her hands created,

Linger on her soft fingertips.

Her voice unheard of,

For many have taken it away,

Silenced her in one way or another.

Her thoughts and emotions a thing of the past,

No one cared to listen to her.

Her hair faded and placed over her eyes,

Hiding her inner soul from others.

Hiding the depths of her pain from everyone.

Walking through life with a catatonic look on her face.

Breathing, and present, but barely alive.

One of the dead among the living.