Sreaming
In a darkened room, a young girl sits. Her head is raised towards the open window beside her. White light from the full moon that hangs high in the sky, above the row of deep green trees, streams into her room. Her long black hair creates a curtain around her face, contrasting with the pale white of her skin. The moonlight makes it shimmer brightly and bathes her face, accentuating the soft details. Her chin is tilted upwards, displaying the soft, smooth skin of her neck. The wind ruffling the curtains swirls her hair slightly, softly, slowly, brushing it back, away from her throat.
She looks peaceful, serene, where she perches. Her hands are folded in her lap, her head tilted slightly to the side, gazing out at something more than man with a tranquil expression on her flawless face. She’s the perfect picture of serenity, complacency - peace.
But that’s all it is: a picture. She’s hiding from the world, showing an exterior completely opposite to what’s inside. ‘Cause inside she’s screaming, shouting, begging to be let out, to be heard, to be acknowledged. Inside she pushes against the cage that bounds her, throwing herself against it with such force. She wants to get out, she wants to escape, she wants to show the world who she really is; what she really feels.
She knows she can’t, though. She knows her screams become silent once they leave her lips and fall on deaf, un-responsive ears anyway. She knows no one’s willing to listen, so she knows she will never be heard.
So she sits; serene, beautiful, peaceful; the girl everyone wants to be, looking out at the night sky, waiting for someone to save her; to listen to her scream.