It was a moon dusted, half framed seedless joke, To think anything other than your arms were home. Tears, more like water stains, the Apple of her own eye. "No one will love you" she whispered, "more than you will love yourself". It doesn't make you selfish, just empty. The bible at her bed side table hasn't been opened in quite a while, cause she's bleeding, bleeding from the inside out, oh she's needing, needing a miricale. Opening that book only brings her to reality, soaking in all the negativity. She's just a girl. This worlds too real, for a little lady made of steal at a young age, but she's still soft, she's still hopeful. Always forgiving, the hand that beat her. Down.Because her skins too thin to withstand, the way your words hammer scars into her wrists. She's fading out, like one of those stars she admires so deeply.