She has strong morals, shouts the figurine of Jesus
next to the cross on the shelf; a hard worker too,
explains the tears on the court shoes
beside the athletic bag placed on the floor.
Her family guides her through
the impediments of life,
informs the list of family rules hung
proudly on the wall next to the front door.
The rare flavor of ice cream tucked away
inside the freezer mumbles she is unique,
but is not bold enough
to present it to society.
She masks her true self, confesses the make up
jumbled inside the trunk as she rushes
towards the feeling of satisfaction. Her
confidence completely lost under the veil.
An old and rotting treehouse hidden behind the
tree limbs cries a lively childhood came and gone
quickly, too quickly, for she cannot
remember the better days.
She locks her troubles up to drain her happiness,
weeps the pink cage in the back patio
rusting after years of dissembling them.
She is not who she seems under the surface.