Half-moons under her eyes, the color of charcoal.

They are the last reminder of her childhood,

when sleep was plentiful, 

and hope was her main food group. 

They are the reminders of

her desires of presents from a red man,

when she dreamed of living from a pink tutu and a pair of silky slippers,

and the days of skipping over a rope,

singing along with her friends

rhyme after rhyme,

even if she hadn't the tiniest clue of their true meaning.

The charcoal half-moons are the what remains of 

screaming 

"HIGHER! HIGHER!" 

to the poor laughing soul behind the swing set

as she played pretend to fly away in the levitating blue ocean above,

as she wishes she still could.

Those charcoal colored half-moons are her last reminder

of the starry masterpiece she was,

before society and life defaced her twinkling layers,

leaving her nothing but a foggy, bleak mess

of the shinning masterpiece she still is, under it all.