She has a twisted sense of what’s beautiful,
carving feelings into her skin and calling it art;
the kind of girl that thinks more than she breathes.
She thinks maybe writing will calm her nerves,
so she lets the words flow from her pen,
but her heart still aches the same.
Do you have the same fascination with words
as you once shared with her,
or have you moved on from that too?
She keeps the books you gave her because she
can see where your fingers traced the page,
mesmerized by the words of someone else’s story.
She tragically waits for a boy who never
really cared about the words she wrote,
and will never care about her.