A survivor? No, but they call her Jane Doe,
defined only by her victimhood, the name sounds apropos.
She’s a dead girl walking; filth still weeping from her wounds
infecting confidants with the torment with which she’s been consumed.
Hostage in the prison behind the pinhole pupils of those hollow brown eyes,
she regressed back to a child wearing blood-soaked panties she had to hide.
Her only friend, the neighbor boy, claimed her body as his toy.
And once he was finished with their games, the little girl laid destroyed.
Jane bartered herself for safety to predators masquerading as her savior.
Their teeth then sunk through fragile skin, but she acted blind to how they betrayed her.
She traced psychic lesions into her flesh, and numbed herself with pills.
Liquor failed to drown her demons, so she chased distraction in cheap thrills.
Those thrills then lost their luster, leaving Jane to face her pain.
Jane locked eyes with the mirror’s stranger, staring daggers without restraint.
She studied each inch of her reflection and whispered a long list of all her errors,
convinced she was the reason that her life remained inescapably filled with terror.