I always sit in the back of the room, trying desperately to fade away. But as I sat in class one day, I realized it's not just my world that is so very gray.

To my right sat this girl with brown eyes, so sad, so wise. She laughed and joked, turning to me to smile. Her eyes pain ridden. All class we talked, sharing some things, others kept hidden. We were each other's life lines for sixty minutes.

That day she looked so lost, like she couldn't see the room. Her eyes were so glossed, glued to the oblivion in her mind. Her smile had shifted slightly, her laugh not quite right. All the while she gazed blindly to the front where this curly haired girl sat.  Her façade was breaking, but I think she no longer cared about that.

As I watched her watch the girl laugh and live, I think I saw something in her eyes die.

I found myself slowly watching them both, not understanding why I didn't see this before. Or how everyone could be oblivious to the tangible pain that connected the two girls. Everyday I saw more and more of the chain that was drowning the girl to my right.

Each day the happy girl talked to this person next to her, laughing and joking in every way the girl next to me tries to do every day. All the while the girl with brown eyes observed, and each day she slowly became more reserved.

I think she used to love the curly brown haired girl.

She turned to me today about half way through the class, looking about as breakable as glass. And she said with those brown eyes filled with dread:
"I would give the world to switch body's with them, even if in the end it were only pretend. I'd give my life to laugh with her for three seconds, even if I weren't actually me. I'd **** to talk to her, even if I were the one to end up dead."

But I guess she chose to solely watch instead.

It seems,
That the poem,
You want to be,
Popular isn't always going to,
Be and that's a shame but,
I'm just glad somebody will read my,
Poems now nobody used to read them thanks.

Hands covered in scars
And I know
It's my fault

I wonder
Who could ever love them?
They are just a reminder
Of what I've done
And that isn't beautiful
At all

Blood isn't beautiful
Injuries aren't beautiful
Especially when I'm the cause

People
Want
Perfect

But I want to be loved like a hot pepper
For my flaws
Even when they aren't pleasant
Or beautiful

Unfortunately
I'm not a vegetable

If you lose a poem,
Just the paper you wrote it on.
You haven't lost the poem at all.

When you give someone a poem,
It should make them blush.
But not redder than you,
Though, often when I give someone a poem,
They don't read it at all.