I see a girl,
Fragile and scared.

She wears long sleeves
To cover up her long history
Of scars.

She already seems broken,
Irreparable.

She want to hide it.
To show she's strong,
Even when she isn't.

She puts on makeup,
Must have cost a fortune.

She likes it.
She "doesn't care" when
She wears all black.

And no-one comes near enough
To see the cracks along her face.

With hands as cold as ice,
She drifts in and out
From the shadows of existence.

Her life created
By another's misery,
She already seems dead.

Turned to dust,
She is but a hollow shell,
Alone and scared.

And every day,
You try to fix her,
To put the pieces back together.

But she just gets worse,
Until all you can do
Is watch her fall apart.

Halfway through the book already,
Fallen deeper into the rabbit-hole.

All the beauty fades away,
An empty husk of what it once was.

I let the words swallow me,
Engulfing me into the darkest depths of despair.

No name, no date,
My life forever an unknown.

It's cold down here,
Dark and silent.

I froze to death,
As I saw your cold heart.

I painted a canvas,
In words, dark and grey.

Overlapping, in many shades,
They covered the whole thing.

I never once thought that the painting
Was dark and dreary, like all others.

For the words were great,
Beautifully written.

So happy in their meaning,
Even though the execution was bad.

Over time,
The words grew.

I watered them with my tears,
And fed them my smiles.

And when I looked,
I saw...

The painting was my portrait,
Down into the depths of my mind.

In the grand scheme of things,
It doesn't really matter.

Whether I get into college,
Or get a job,
Or become really rich.

Even if I am poor,
And a failure,
And end up homeless.

It's all the same.

Either way, I will be a speck,
A little piece
In an ever-changing universe.

Whatever I do,
It won't matter.
I will still die.

But all we seem to do
Is **** ourselves.

We work our lives away,
Just to gain
That one momentary pleasure.

So yeah, I don't want to work for a living.
Or get married,
Or have kids.

It doesn't matter, after all.

Of course, I might care,
At least for a little bit,
If I could live.

To choose a path
Whose reward
Is a longer life.

But only for a little.
Because it must be hell
To live forever.

To constantly watch everyone else die,
Or live forever with everyone you hate.
Take your pick, it's all the same.

Life itself is hell,
Death is hell,
And anything in between is meaningless.

It truly is.

What I'm trying to say, is...
We all want to die,
But we all want to live.

A blank slate,
A fresh start.
Full of potential.

Once upon a time,
I had hope.
I thought things could change.

What does it matter now, though?
You don't care.
And, quite frankly, neither do I.

For you see, potential is one thing.
But the outcome tends to be
Completely different.

Sure, I could change,
But so could you.
Live a life full of lies.

Instead, we starve ourselves,
Constantly craving a glimmer,
A slight hint of affection.

You and I,
We could change.
But why don't we?

On the mend,
I am growing.
Healing, little by little.

Then - a sudden break.
Once again, I am covered in blood,
But this time it's not mine.

It's yours, my darling.

Oh, what have I done?