My Burberry glasses frames my face perfectly. Lips are lightly glossed, wouldn’t want to bring attention to my full lips, yet it still shines and catches light when my brain sends a command to stretch those face muscles into a smile. The smile… the pain it covers. It’s guards a safe pathway to me. The real me, that prances to the alter, accompanied with my smile, and cries. Cries, real tears, for the 6 year old kid that can no longer call herself a virgin, cries for the fear of being with her attacker by her knowing parents just to avoid the problem, for the black eyes, busted lips, bruised ribs and egos from the man she chose as her life partner, for her sacred fruit that he stole time and time again. Cries and moans for the spilled love that people tracked and smeared across underground railroads. Yet, no one sees the cries… or moans…subtle pleas for help. They see 32 white teeth surrounded by a lightly glossed lip. They church hug her to ensure that her tithes stay faithful and walk away from the very reason why Christ died on the tree….For the broken.