On a winding road resides a house,
a bit less opulent than the rest.
Painted beige with green shutters,
and fitted with a scuffed white door
holding a “no trespassing” sign in the window.
The grass is slightly too tall, and the garden unkempt,
but inside you will find no such problems.
The air smells like clean laundry, and pictures of
not-so-pretty people with smiles that end at their cheeks line the walls.
As day turns to night shapeless figures return to their rooms,
shutting the doors tight behind them.
When all others are asleep and the hum of the air conditioning
is all that can be heard, a light flicks on behind the first door on the right side of the hall.
A young girl of not yet fourteen lives here.
Her skin is sickly pale and tissue paper thin, like a careless touch would tear it open;
and her small eyes are glossy with tears not yet ready to be spilled.
On her desk there lies a graveyard of crinkled papers,
with chicken-scratch writing occupying every line and margin.
She wants so badly for  her words to be beautiful,
for them to burrow inside of you and leave goosebumps on your skin.
Because to the unloved reactions feel a lot like caring.
She never was what they needed her to be,
and now she’s nothing at all.
Locked away she lost herself,
and she calls out for me in the dark.
I try to stifle the sounds of her cries, but they find me in my dreams.
This goes on until morning,
when sunlight pours in through the slits in the blinds,
and frauds come out to play.

-K.M.