Blue eyes wide in a war-torn face,
blonde hair tied in practiced grace.
A child of ghosts and broken rules,
raised in silence, bruised by fools.
Her mother, cold—too far to reach.
Her father, gone—a wound, not speech.
And he, the one who wore the mask,
who took what no one dared to ask.
He came at night, when no one cared,
and left her soul stripped down and bared.
No screams, just breath she wouldn’t waste—
she learned to vanish, learned to brace.
She wrapped her waist in binding tape,
starved the hunger, craved escape.
\"Too much,\" they said—so she became
less of a body, more of shame.
At night she drew in blood-red lines,
a language shaped in silent signs.
The scale her altar, pain her prayer—
just thin enough, they might still care.
But even small, they looked right through.
What love she craved, she never knew.
Still, in her eyes, a stubborn flame—
not gone, not lost, just not the same.