They say it’s beautiful
   this sadness that she keeps
but she thinks about it,
   and that can’t be true.
They want to paint her.
   They want to write wordy poems
about her canvas coloured
   a thousand shades of blue.
They call her the sea.
   They call her a storm.
They try to wrap her up
   in neat metaphors.
And they feel so sorry for her,
   yet they spend long nights
wishing it was them
   who everyone adored.
She spends the time counting
   minutes left in the hour.
They spend the time counting
   the rungs of the scarlet ladders on her wrists.
They write stories about
   the golden boys who come and save her
The boys she wished
   she never kissed.
And they applaud
   the times she really laughs.
And she hates the way
   that tastes -
like a spoiled, sour reminder
   in the back of her throat
telling the world she
   was sick in the first place.
And they say it’s beautiful
   the sadness she’s drowning in
and they’d rather write stories about it
   than throw her a rope.
And all she can think about
   is how ugly it all is
as she fights to keep from sinking
   and tries not to choke.