I am a thought,
Stained like ink in the darkest corner of your mind,
You are the bruises and scars on my skin,
I am a butterfly imprisoned in the glass of a stained glass window,
Nobody cares enough to notice me in my prison, in my hell,
I am just another of the names inked upon you,
Another long-forgottten 'angel,'
Who is now nothing but a scar,
A scar of the creature she used to be.