She's sitting in front of a garden of death. There are yellow flowers staring back at her. They are mute, silenced, and hushed as the pearls of glistening tears stroll down their stems. How could the adventure of a tear be born from a wretched moment?
Does she know? Does she know all she has not suffered yet? All that there is yet to be suffered? Does she realize the amount of pain that still awaits? I'm afraid not. I'm afraid. Just afraid. The unknown, the uncertain, the yet to be discovered, risking all that could be painless, yet all that could be stagnant in a reeking plateau of amazinglessness.
Her body is detaching from herself. It's creating a new syndrome of adversity in the shape of abstract birth marks. Oh, so much beauty in their meaning, as they rest on her skin, proclaiming the adventures of anguish as it traveled at its will, yet heard by none as the adventures are untold. Her soft, soft skin stroking against the selfishness of someone else's sadness.
Her lips so magnificently sealed by a finger that traced its own lock onto them. How heavy and yet gentle it locked away the secrets of the most amazing love story that will never come to be. How she awakens with arduous mystery; falling again, again, and again for the same pair of eyes. How her code of honor can puzzle people by crowds, yet they know not the times she has so regretfully broken it.
Could her waist speak?
Does it tell its own secrets?
Can it accurately describe how perfectly it has been held?
Not in words. Never.
And so she wonders how many secrets she actually keeps in the dismantled part of her soul? For she knows that her strength comes not from the easy moments, but from hardships. And that because she has experienced pain, she is a lion for those she loves. And she would have it no other way.