Behind Closed Doors

She closes the door behind her,
Her room, once her sanctuary, now bears memories
Her fragile mind shies away from
Though they scream from every dark, dismal corner.

She lights her rose red candle and sits
At her desk; her sketchbook lay open and dirtied
As she draws the monsters from her imagination,
Ones that are beautiful to others yet horrifying to herself.

She dips her quill in the deepest blue ink,
Penning her lover a letter never intended to be sent,
And kisses each crease as she folds it,
Sealing it with wax and all her love.

She readies herself for slumber but stands
Before her lengthy mirror, her eyes roaming
Over her battered figure, feeling more naked, more vulnerable,
Than ever before, if only visible to herself.

She climbs into her bed of black linen, swimming in its darkness
And closes her bloodshot eyes. Her tears seep past her lashes,
Only to be caught by her pale, sullen cheeks.

Each and every night, behind closed doors,
This frail girl comes to terms with who she is,
And fights to determine if she is worth her own love.