Her breathing got heavy, her voice started to shake. How much more could she take? She missed the love she always used to feel, she hates the reality that none of it was real. She stares at the clock begging it to be three, no one would notice as she waited in agony.
She runs to the bus and holds on for the ride, she fights back tears to keep her self- pride. She’s not a star, model or a dime, she just keeps writing because it’s safe in her mind. She never wants to say how she really feels; she never reveals the scars that have healed.
She’s not real pretty and she never will be. She won’t ever be what they call joyful or happy. She tears herself down so no one else can; she lets it happen again and again. She can’t tell the truth when everything she knows is a lie. She doesn’t focus on anything but staying alive.
She can’t wear dresses or frilly little clothes; she’s terrified of the thought of skin that shows. She feels a little better before it all crashes down. She can’t get used to the fact no one’s around.
She hides in her room and under the sheets; she closes her eyes and admits defeat. She can’t be a saint when everyone’s a sinner, if she’s not a loser, she’ll never be a winner.
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