She walked with a notion of exile
her head bowed, victim to their subtle scorn
a dried flower
cast among the thorns
Her hands tied
hair falling like the sky
patiently focused on their smirks
with placidly seething eyes
She hates the word victim
or any pity presented to her ears
she knows she has done nothing
but that doesn’t dry up the tears.
![](http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y83/perfect_sins/personal.gif)
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