You, there.

With the makeup stains across your eyelids and the furrowed brow.

Looking as if you just walked out of a horror scene,

one of those B-Rated movies with the stupid teenagers and the masked murderer on the rampage.

Standing in front of the mirror for over an hour, with your fist clenched so tightly,

that your knuckles turn white from their previous bruised purple.

Shards of glass stick to your crooked smile, and your teeth look like a mad dog's, jaw strung and ready

to crush whatever it is that's in your red mouth.

Your eyes glitter like gum wrappers littered across the highway under the sun you claim to hate so often.

Oh you poor pathetic thing, they called you beautiful.

Maybe you would be, if beautiful by definition looked like something akin to a ******* painting,

emotion wracked upon an unwitting victim until it lays gutted and breathless and looking like a particularly eventful crime scene.

Unfortunately for you, no matter how loud you crank up the music, it will never be loud enough to drown out your fears.

You, there.

With the messy blonde hair and stupid grin,

looking like a Kurt-Cobain wannabe without the talent or the following,

wracked by your own uncertainty, determined to make yourself purposeless, slacker by nature,

too lazy to be alive.

You won't survive in this society, no,

but they won't ever pull the plug, either.

You've worked hard to never have to try at anything, and you bask in it like it's a treasure trove and you are the hungry dragon guarding it's location.

These beasts are almost always slayed, but you are impenetrable,

no one can get within your arm's reach without being hit aside,

and those who have born the blunt of your blow and still walk closer, closer,

recoil once they get a good look at your face.

Did they think they'd find a princess? Under all that?

You, there.

The one who cries too often and wears their anger on their face,

you seem to be five parts rage, as if hating everything,

with all the emotion your cold-case heart can possibly fathom,

will make you strong.

You're so young, but you've already tried so hard it seems,

to make sure that you will never have anything,

to make sure no one will ever love you,

to make sure you will never love anyone,

to make sure your future is so ******* brief,

and so ******* loud,

that it sounds like a gunshot in a bad neighborhood

before the sun ever got a chance to rise.

You, there.

We're destined for a long jump down aren't we?

Aren't I?

I hope there's spikes at the bottom.