On a cold iron table rests a tiny girl

She herself rests inside a syringe,

A tool of evil complete.

Perfect in all ways, her face contains no beauty

As the smooth complexion and sparkling eyes

Are hardened and dulled by her expression

Of Pure Hatred.

She does not want to be inside that tool, that needle.

A baby is carried in.

Her nose is squashed.

Her skin is pale.

But, she is happy and giggles,

Joyously, until –

She catches sight of the dreaded needle that will,

In no time,

Pierce her soft and supple skin,

Causing her pain.

As the girl is injected into the baby’s small and still forming body,

A small gasp, a single tear

Slides down her warm and smooth cheek

And the girl –

The girl is swept along like

A pebble in a flood, or

A leaf in a great gust of wind.

Excruciating, being squeezed through the tip of the cold and poisonous needle

But her expression changes not save

A touch of sadness.

For as the girl is injected into the baby girl,

She knows the future and what she is.

She is liquid anger.

Years later, the baby has become a beautiful young woman but,

It matters not

That all turn

To stare

And to gawk.

She is not happy,

This beauty is not hers.

But someone else’s, stripped away

A skin off a dead animal to be eaten.

With false beauty the woman is forced to live,

Until the day she gives up on life.

She will never be happy.

She is full of liquid anger.