When you look at her you see smiles, she appears to be so happy,
like nothing could go wrong.
Little did you know, she's oh so fragile.
Like a porcelain doll. You drop her, and she breaks. Her heart shatters.
That smile on her face convinces the world that nothing's wrong.
Really, she's dying. Rather, dead already, to some extent.
The names they call her;
B**ch. C*nt. Freak. Dyke. Loser. Emo. Goth.
They sink deep into her skin, like the blades she hides under her bed.
Nobody knows that it's killing her. People don't see.
They don't realize what she does in the darkness of her room.
They can't see the blood stains on her carpet,
under that rug in the corner from those late nights,
when she's haunted by the words people have said to her.
They can't see her wrists.
They can't see the empty pill bottles under her bed.
No. They don't understand how it feels to lay in bed all night,
staring at the ceiling, thinking about suicide.
You look at her face, and you don't see any hurt.
But when you look into her eyes, you can see her heart.
You hear her cries for help.
And you just leave her there, because you say "she can deal with it."
Maybe she can't.
Maybe she needs somebody to stop her from hurting herself.
Just maybe, she needs to know that someone actually cares.
