I could tell by the way
that she ran her hands
across her own skin
that she hated herself.

The way she stared
sadly into the empty space
That girl would never
love herself enough.

But she never gave herself
time to learn how to love.
Dead by her eighteenth birthday,
no one ever claimed her.

Whether it was the drugs
and alcohol and sickness
or her own hatred that killed her,
I will never know.