The Mistaken

Tiny hands rip and claw for a shred of hope; something more than the misery engulfing their putrid existence.
Angry faces look them in the eyes; washed away from the years of tears that have powered the diminishing resistance.
Lips move but only lies escape, “you’re okay, it will get better soon” they said once to the body in the morgue.
A mother sits holding a picture frame, “my baby left never to return again” whispered the fallen priestess.
You’re .body becomes more than just lifeless, it becomes a beacon for sorrow and despair.
All the pain that the world once forgot festers inside you and rots, giving a scent like burning hair.
I was once a good girl who followed the rules, but there's a fire inside my heart that will never cool.