She ventures in,

Climbing through my double-glazed windows

As the pristine curtains flap like broken swans.

Muddied footprints trail across my beige carpet,

Across my lilac faux fur rug

And stop abruptly at my bed.

Her frightened hand touches mine-

A hand laced with scars

So fresh that the strawberry sauce trickles,

Landing pathetically on her pixie feet.

I turn on the blinding light and guide her to the bathroom,

Where her naked body stands vulnerably-

Eyes glancing at me intermittently with despair yet love.

Wincing silently,

The warm water embraces her,

As she lets the newly carmine bubbles cleanse her broken skin

Like porcelain-

The type her mother used to collect.

I don't look as I pass her the towel,

But it is easy to sense her desperation-

From the way she trusts me so staunchly.

She joins me in the kitchen

And I serve her tomato soup-

Although I know she won't eat it.

To my surprise she does,

So I suspect she will be back tomorrow

When I'll hold her flaxen hair

While she shoves her delicate fingers down her throat-

Swallowing the dignity she ever had.

"Thank you", she whispers-

Voice hoarse and feathery.

I put on a smile,

Drained with fatigue I fight with honesty.

I hear creaking from the maple stairs-

Ruby eyes glistening in the 4am darkness.

Beckoning them in,

I grab some seats-

Mouldy and coated with dust.

They sit there

Gazing expectantly,

Ropes around their necks and grins etched with rusty sharpener blades

Like school children packed on a bench.

But that is what they are.

I weep with the forgotten girls,

And for them,

As they laugh and sob and scream.

I cannot comfort them

Because they are the forgotten girls in society,

Or more like the ignored girls-

Someone else's problem.

And that someone is me.