She was awfully pretty, and it felt awfully right,
but she was a bird, and he was nothing more then a kite.

she was sick,
but not in the way you'd except,
no, she was sick in a way that she'd come
to regret.

Maybe she laughs,
Maybe she cries,
Maybe she cuts her wrists and thighs,
Maybe she’s happy,
Maybe she’s sad,
Maybe she can’t remember a time things were this bad.
Maybe she’s ok,
Maybe she’s not.
Maybe she doesn’t have a clear thought.
Maybe she laughs,
Maybe she cries,
Or maybe she’s really just dying inside.

I enjoy being touched.
Not in the sense of *******.
Or lust.

But in the way of true innocence.

I crave affection.
Even if I cannot give it.
Even if it is without being physical,
A smile changes my day.

But the knowledge would be nice.

To know
That I alone
Can be loved by him?
Ah, what a joy.

But I can’t.

I flinch at touch,
I squirm during hugs,
I shy away from lips.

But the knowledge would be nice.