She’s hanging out her window at three A.M., watching ashes dance out of reach on the wind
From a cigarette that she wishes she didn’t feel as if she needed
In order to stop her from doing something even more self destructive,
And she is invisible.
I wish I were as close to her as that stream of nicotine is;
I wish I could stain her brain with vibrant colors and thoughts,
I wish I could convince her that she’s better than this. Her body is littered in scars.
Her head is loud and crowded with every name and insult she’s ever had directed at her,
And there isn’t a name that they can call her that she hasn’t already called herself.
She stands rebellious and strong against her tormentors, yells at them to say it again,
Because they’ve almost got her convinced – But inside, she’s crumbling down
Another inch every fucking second. She’s stopped eating again.
She doesn’t do it on purpose; it’s just hard to feel hungry wh