She is cold, pale, wet and tired.
She is the same on the inside as she is the outside,
and she will forever stay that way.

Maybe she could be something more.
Except something stands in her way.
You and everyone else that surrounds her.

She is popular.
She has friends.
She makes mistakes.
She is not forgiven.

Maybe if she didn't make mistakes then they would see.
They would see how true and pure she really is.
That is only a dream of hers.
A dream that shall not come true.

She then stares at a sink of blood and crushed veneers.
What has she become?  
She used to be filled with love.
It must of been skinny love.
Love that was fragile, love that did not last.

She looks at her reflection in the mirror and sees nothing.
Then she soon realizes that it’s always been nothing.
She’s been stuck between four walls with no doors, and no windows.
In those walls there is nothing and she is nothing.

I spent
my life
designing a
border,
between myself
and the
world of
disorder
But the
border was
breached by
a world
so sick,
with hearts
of stone
and minds
of brick

©