She Was Her Own Heaven

Her hand, 
Her hand now showed marks of the tight ropes around her.
The reigns of disbelief.
The marks of tearing up inside.
By every quarter, every inch, every cell, every nerve.

Her body cracking through her skin,
Slowly turning up and showing the marks of her heart stretching.
Her eyes dyed deep blue.
Not of sleeplessness, but the twitch in her heart.
Of her wishes which remained unfulfilled.

Her face wrinkled,
By the storm that went within her.
Because she forgot that happiness is her.
She forgot that it was not just him, that she lived for.
She was not born to be forgotten.

With a cup of coffee in her hand, sitting along the long grass.
In open air, her eyes wandered away with the smoke from her cup.
Wandering away to the land unknown where only tears of sorrow lived.
Following the smoke along,
She felt that stars make the darkest of nights beautiful.
She realized that maybe shooting stars are rare,
But they do exist.

The misty mornings,
Do turn into the clearest of skies.
The wounds do heal, 
Wrinkled hands and clawed up chains can be healed and broken.

But only by herself,
Only she was the hindrance between her,
And her happiness.
She was her own shooting star.
She was the white clouds behind the grey.
She was the long tall grass.
She was her own heaven.