She said look back, so I did.

She grew up, and learned she’s not a doll.
And you still can’t lie to that book.
Once the feather has been gripped,
What is written is forever a moment of truth.
Perhaps not forever,
But with that ink,
She spoke her truth.

She sobs when she writes about
The sadness of her life.

She rips holes in the page when
Her pen slashes the fury,
Of her shattered youth.

She smiles gently at the swaying trees,
When the wistful words of family later made,
Dance like cursive across the buzzing page.

Her cheeks flush red,
When she writes about,
tasting the peaches.

She toils over whether or not she’s ready to admit,
How much she loves the rush,
Of writing something true.

To a page, she’ll never lie.