She once expressed the feeling,
of blood pouring from her skin.
Self infliction. Something held dear,
to those who don't realize,
they have the potential to heal.

She once told me, she didn't know how to feel,
so she coaxed the feeling from her bones,
in the form of blades, until her skin itched,
from all the unneeded attention.
Cracked, and bleeding,
hurt pouring from her overly expressive eyes,
she masked the pain, walked among us,
as just another misunderstood,
stargazing child.

Her name became stitched into constellations,
for her eyes never left the sky,
unless to stare down at her tiring feet,
and hope to be transparent in her depression,
to people standing on street corners,
seemingly inviting her to join them.

She knew she'd someday board a bus, and consciously leap into the unknown.

Her minds limitations would no longer hold her down.