At seven years old the fire started
It kept my veins hot,
As I brushed past those shallow souls
Around me.
By the time I was eleven
I would play pretend.
The fire wasn't bad,
The anger in my heart was
Fake.
The scars on my porcelain arms
Were silver.
When I made it to 15,
I was a princess
Of marble.
Never feeling,
Never breaking.
Quiet like a fire.
Smoother than a storm.
When I reached 18,
The silver scars were gone and
The deadness in my eyes
Never betrayed
The fire within, which never left
And never will.