Rusted and wished to be long forgotten. Infected with hatred and covered in carmillion yellow pus. The crimson stained the white lace dress of a girl who isn't a girl for long. ripped at the seams, she walks down the beaten raod of what she calls her own personal hell. She ask god many times, "why didn't you let me into heaven?" When he was ready to pluck her from the garden so many years ago. The scar slowly bleed open, as her delicate procilin hand guids the temptaion of metal against her infantile skin. "To you." she annouced, looking up at the Virgin Mary, who seems to weep for all eturnity. But nothing is returned, as the tears fall down, and attempt to wash the crimson off the lace. She still wonders, down that dirt path, only hoping to find the walk way to the end. All she sees is the unwanted darkness, with every step she attempts, with worn and withered shoes. Staggering like a drunkard, coming home from the pub to a beaten half dead wife. Intoxicated with lies that fill her self, she hold tight to the only thing she knows in certain in this fabled fairy tale world. The only truth is that she often regrets living, feeling as if no one really cares for her. Yes, the whispers tell her other wise. So what of the ruby glass slippers he had promised her? The ones that will guider her surely to her destination of paradise? They have torn and lost their glow, for nothing, she only is disgusted by the thought of what she did to recived them. So she stills Walks along the path of self-degrating fantacies. Maybe one of these days, the rusted razor blade memories will finnaly bring her the life she always wanted.