She tied her hair back,

Excited.

She perfected her ribbon,

Elated.

She was seeing him today.

He called her 

"Darling,"

And held open the door.

He shook her father’s hand.

He was adored.

She was nineteen.

…

Her hair was tied back for her,

While she cried.

She perfected her smile,

While everyone sighed.

She was walking down the aisle today.

He called her

"His girl,"

And held open a box.

Her mother shook with glee.

She was twenty.

…

Her hair wasn’t pulled back,

But hanging in her face.

She worked to perfect her tone,

As their baby screamed.

He hadn’t stopped sobbing all day.

Her husband called her

"Bitch"

And wound up his arm.

She closed her eyes.

She was twenty-five.

…

Her hair splayed across the carpet,

Her eyelid shining like a black sun, all traces of blue hidden away.

She worked to open it,

But couldn’t, nor could she yesterday.

Her husband called,

"Go ahead, son"

And the boy stomped on her chest.

She did nothing to defend herself.

She was thirty-two.

But in thirty-two more minutes,

She was dead.

…

Two hundred and forty months later,

The neighbor’s girl pulled her hair forward,

Giddy.

She perfected her rouge,

Ready.

She was seeing him today.

He called her

By her name

And planned to force open her legs.

He never met her father.

He was his father.

She had no idea.