She puts on a brave face,
Seemingly letting people in and confronting her monster
She gives it no passing thought or tear in front of them
But then, her thighs show her raw sketches, every day in those shorts
And her words, they tell otherwise
She passes around her poetry in hopes that, what?
That someone can help her?
Every day she goes home and her veins run freely into our polluted world, the transparent blue turned by oxygen to the scarlett red of her tears
Every day, shorts, rant, slice.
Routine has become her, to keep up “who she is”?
Is this all there is to her?
To keep up the appearance of this sad little girl thinks she is?
To maybe have stability in one thing if anything?
To keep up that lie and find comfort in saying she is sad?
Why my dear would you stay this way if you know it all?
If you know the terrors and trembles of it?
You’ve confronted your tears and now its time to board platform 9/3-4 and pass out of this world of yours.
Every day, shorts, rant, slice.
Inside she is screaming,
Begging for someone to really notice,
To tell her who she is.