Across a small hill down the street,
Lives a girl.
Dark hair like the midnight ocean,
Eyes like the sun.
Everyday, she walks across the hill
Then comes back.
Like the spinning cycle of the stars
A nice dewy spring night,
When the moon shone like a diamond ring,
She walked through the heavy rain,
Her head hanging down.
Yet, she continued down the road
Only to come back.
Back to her little house
Across the hill.
The next morning,
At the crack of dawn,
She rushed to the train,
Her face cracked open like a broken vase.
Angry red marks marked her skin,
Blue patches covered her fingertips.
But she ran out of her little house.
Only to come back a few days later.
The next day, when the sun was bright,
She came for a summer walk,
Her skin pale and hair unbrushed
As she made her way downtown.
During an autumn evening,
Alongside a gash across her face,
She ran out of her house
Then, one winter morning,
She shouldered her backpack
And walked fearlessly away
Away from home.
And never came back.
Never came back to the bruises,
Never came back to the pain.
Dark hair like muddied hands,
Eyes like dull crystals.
Across the hill,
Lived a girl.