Once was a woman who loved too deeply.
Her pain hidden by masks of security.
The lines from strain, the internal rage,
create the holes in her soul.
She attends the meetings with a vacant stare.
She cooks the meals in a robotic manner.
Her glare is steady, constant and cold.
Ritualistic in her manners and careful in her steps.
She laughs as if on cue. The lines already set.
One day this woman could take no more,
leaving a note by the kitchen door.
Fed up with the melancholy and lies she was told,
she flung herself forward, releasing the black hole in her soul.
From this tale of woe I tell to you, you never know what goes on behind closed blinds and pray its never you..