The wind blew her
hair away from her face
the perfectly curled blonde
hair flew open from her
pale skin as if it
were a curtain

Skin so pure
as if it were glass,
he always thought he
could see straight through
always knowing what lied beneath,
her glass was never fogged

But now;

The clean glass window
showed a stain, one so
noticeable it was
impossible to miss

Panic filled her green eyes
as shock sprung into
his dull brown ones
and suddenly her face,
so pure and innocent,
without warning seemed damaged
and he hoped it would not
become something he would
have to fix because sometimes
it is easier to cover rather than repair

The dark scar lying on her face
seemed to be the remainder of
what had cut so deep, making
her seem strong
A simple hug to her frail body
first seemed to be out
of comfort, his arms would
hold the frail girl, but now
it would become a job to him,
rather than an effortless form of emotion

That feeling of
“something here isn’t right”,
the feeling of complication
crept over him the second
he saw past her curtains.
Why couldn’t she have just
kept them closed?

With her
things felt simple,
with her
it was easy.
Who was he to assume
where the scar had come from?

Because once the wind
stops, the curtains
return to a close.
So who is to say it wasn't an imagination,
and who's to say what lies beneath
is so terrible anyways?