The cry that will never be heard

There she sits in    
her solemn silence,  
painting a crimson red,    
with a knife to her wrist.    
Every ounce spilling    
onto her paper is another    
demon drowned out by    
her mist.    
    
Again-and-again,    
She falls prey to an overwhelming    
slew of unwanted emotions, devouring    
every last bit of dignity she has, forcing her to retreat to a place of solitude, her veil. A day in the sun is typically eradicated by a storm filled with rain and hail.      
   
Forever, she's forced to conceal the true inclinations of her beautiful mind.    
She has no choice but to carry on with  
her daily grind.    
   
She yells her safe  
Word "rape", but there's no escape.    
What is ripped and battered used    
to be her magic cape.    
   
She remains bound to the    
norms that have long    
been established, for  
what once was hers  
has been relinquished.  
 
Her reluctance becomes    
evident, through the    
crimson red,    
spilling onto her    
canvas. Falling effortlessly, and    
so elegantly, It is nothing but    
a cry that will    
never be heard.    
   
She'll convince herself otherwise    
but try as she might it    
is everything but absurd.