Her beauty was always unseen,
her pain hidden in smiles.
Her life always had twists,
her eyes were always had a shattered look.
Her heart was a black hole,
her ears had heard it all.
Her lips always stained with pain,
Her arms were covered in cuts,
her face always so pale as a ghost.
Her legs so skinny,
her bones so easily broken.
You asked her to smile,
and she looked at you with a blink stare.
Her clothes not like everyone else,
her love of poetry is what started her life.
She wrote about all the things that happened,
she wrote about cutting, and being misunderstood.
Yet, the was one thing she could never write about,
and that was happiness.
