See the faintest of marks.
A small collective of scars,
the tiniest of cuts.
Down her wrists.
Across her arms.
A most deliberate art,
at least two, maybe even a few close calls.
Hidden there, beneath those long sleeves,
Is a truth only she and the mirror can see.
Such an intricate, tangled web of deception,
She—the girl with the secrets—knows how to weave.
Where is SHE, they ask of me.
What happened to the girl they used to know?
Where did she go?
Does anybody know?
Who is SHE, they ask of me.
This girl that stands in her place.
The girl that wears her face.
She’s an imposter, they claim.
She’s cold, there is no warmth.
Where there was once,
there is no more.
She has the hollow, vacant eyes of one who has seen too much.
The weary sighs…the exhaustion in the worried lines; signs she’s had enough.
Driven by them all to the very edge of the ledge she stands upon.
No talking her down this time.
Her mind’s made up : she’s given up.
Hello World, can you hear her now?
Do you see her now?
End the pain, erase the blame, and forget her name.
The girl with the secrets–when the lights go down,
In the darkness—she’s one and the same.
In time, the memory of her will fade.
And that’s okay.
Sometimes it’s better this way.
Sometimes forever only lasts a day.
So she goes somewhere quiet.
somewhere no one can see.
How she ties the band tight,
After she pulls up her sleeve.
She no longer feels the slight pinch.
She’s done it so often, she’s embarrassed to admit.
She’s grown accustomed to it.
Now for the burn; that solitary, momentary sting.
Take a breath, let it out.
The discomfort is only fleeting.
Then it’s nothing but pure oblivion.
Feels so good, it’s damn near Heaven.
Flowing through the bluest of veins.
This slight scar, too–in time–will fade.
Beautiful angel melody.
She’s a delicate mess; a reckless calamity.
Her life discolored by too much despair and tragedy.
The girl with the secrets,
and her heroin remedy.