That woman with 52 inches of hair and a body like a sculpture had everything meticulously figured out. Her inner and outer strength were as apparent as the old yellowish stains on her now pearly-white teeth. She had brilliantly overcome every mountainous obstacle life tossed in her way. Her boss-lady-like heels pounded the ground beneath her and her shoes kept her going in an unstoppable manner. The new skin on her fresh face glowed like the flame from an unlit and untouched candle. All was okay, and everything finally felt right. While gazing at her journey – at the amount of dust she had left behind and the dirt she turned to ashes – her feet walked on delicate sand as life tickled the cracks of her toes. She wore pride on her sleeves without weight on her shoulders, and the stance in her stand made her seem like a warrior.
Life took her hair and all she had known. Her lit cigarette burned like her flesh turned to bone. She built up a wall with the force she had left, and the dirt became part of her every breath. The skin in her folds showed the path she was on as it sagged to the beat of everything wrong. Her feet dragged on the earth – like bricks in the mud – as she twisted her ankle through the waves and the flood. She would walk through the town with her scraps on her skin as the sand in the glass simply buried her in. Life knocked her down, in an unforgiveable fashion, like the pain that had settled in place of her passion. Passing each day in the depths of despair because life took away all her reasons to care.
The 52 inches turned to 52 weeks as she struggled immensely to hang on to her roots. The branches on her tree had all withered and died while she punched on the bark and her knuckles they cried. She fell like the leaves hidden deep in the snow like the hair on her head refusing to grow.