Where did she go?
Not anywhere far.
Not a stranger’s house,
a bus stop,
or a get away car.

She stayed nearby
but yet, she didn’t really
She wasn’t here to begin with
She was gone from the start,
but merely.

Her feelings shrank
the amount of drugs flooded
and her tears were what kept her afloat
with her wrists and thighs blooded.

They sat in her room, listening to sobs
of her drunken mother
and her sleep deprived father
hoping she’d come back
even though every second, she became farther.

She was beautiful
brown eyes and a smile
but she never stayed for a long while

They would ask where she was
how she acted, what she was drawn to
they didn’t have an answer other than
“She’s gone.”

Her words were beautiful
She spoke in a soft tone,
barely a whisper
She wrote about memories, dreams, laughs
and when he kissed her.

She didn’t have control over the pencil,
it just wrote.
and wrote.
and wrote.
Maybe the words would become songs with a beautiful note.

“Another boy” “I suppose”
They have seen more than her,
but not how her spirits rose.

Who did she want? What and when?
She wanted him, to love and then.
She sat there watching couples with their lover.

She wrote the truth that no one liked
but that’s what she did best,
wrote what no one would write.

Sometimes they were simple,
sometimes they rhymed
She wrote on her own will and time
They may not think it, but the strings of the heart she would pull
And just like her,
Her words were beautiful.