You trace her scars as she sleeps, her back to you. You are reminded of why you love her so as you do this. She is strong, although she has scars. They were from before. Before she met you, when she was still losing her innocence. When she still had it, of course. She shifts, causing you to retract your hand. She turns to face you, eyes fluttering open. Her eyes, one blue, one brown, both flecked with gold dust. The eyes of an angel. The eyes that are red from crying. 

You ask her how long she has been crying, and she answers as long as you have been tracing her scars. You ask her why she has been crying, and she replied that it was the demons again, her demons. The demons that had taunted her from before she had even begun to know what innocence was. 

You tell her that they're not worth her time, and she replies that she knows. She replies that she's not worth anyone's time, not even yours. She begins to cry again, curling into a ball on the bed you share. You stand up, and pick her up. You cradle her as if she were a frail porcelain doll, breakable at the slightest touch. You carry her outside, whispering sweet nothings into her ear. 

The night is mostly void, partially stars, and a brisk wind blows her thin night gown  back and forth. She shivers as you set her down. You must let her go, to go back to the place she is from. She was set down in the snow of the yard, and the snow will soon cover her. She will be gone, and in the place she came from.