Locked in the depths of her soul,
she sits and awaits her lover's company,
but no lover comes to console her,
nor does a lover appear.

Her eyes show no vision of tears,
no sadness does her heart show,
she is caged from emotion,
not able to show sorrow.

Her heart is non-existent,
for it has been stolen,
ripped from her chest,
leaving her a bloody mess.

She recovered quickly,
got her revenge sweetly,
never once cried for a lover so cruel,
only laughed at his name and spoke of him in haste.

Teasing herself into happiness,
making a world of her own,
she sits by herself and thinks of nothing,
nothing of why she never cries.

Love is not a promise,
and it is far from a rose,
promises are made to be broken,
and roses carry too many a thorn.

She is but a rose,
who wilted away and then regrew,
promising to forever be grateful,
to the one who made her this way.

When she grew back,
she lacked emotion,
caged into the darkness of the blue clouds and yellow sun,
thrown into a dumpster of lies.

Lies that she believes are true,
that she isnt hurting,
isn't crying,
and is happy beyond anyones belief or recognition.