The Triggers

Buried beneath the multiple layers of protection
Lies a weak, heartbroken soul.
No longer trusting the angelic world ahead of her,
She wears a mask suppressing her sadness.

With each waking moment,
Curved lips are plastered on her face,
Persuading those around her of normalcy
Yet her heart drips blood in its wake.

Her eyes betray her expressionless features.
A pair of optic nerves,
Lost in its own world of worries
And devoid of genuine happiness.

Moving in a state of confusion,
The brunt of her blurriness weigh her shoulders down.
She speaks nothing of it,
But she trembles over the spoken words.

Memories of failure hammer at her persistence,
Draining the little remainders of her.
Her brain fights a battle of the past and present,
Further weakening her pressured state.

She pretends that it no longer affects her,
But it sticks out like a rose among thorns to eagle eyes.
Only those able to see through her facade
Know the fear and melancholy swimming in her veins.