She sits in the room,
It's dark and it's quiet.
Above her, though,
It sounds like a riot.
Chairs are moved,
Sounds are made.
But if she's to whisper,
The price would be paid.
They call it a prison,
They call it Hell.
But only she knows,
The pain this well.
They'll pick,
and they'll tease,
and watch her,
As she falls to her knees.
She tries not to let them,
But they come anyway.
The tears, they fall,
As her head does in shame.
She doesn't want,
To face another day.
Alone in her room,
She'd much rather stay.
She's sick of the torture,
Sick of the pain.
But she goes to the bus stop,
And stands in the rain.
The bus ride *****,
And the picking won't end.
So a text to her mother,
She knows she must send.
"Hey mom, come get me,
I know you're at work.
I'm sick from dinner,
Last night's pulled pork."
She knows it's wrong,
To lie and deceive.
But she needed an excuse,
To get out and leave.
She's back in her room,
It's a safe place to think.
"I don't want to live anymore,"
She says with one final blink.