i grew out of a crack in the sidewalk. concrete walls and asphalt floors are not the most hospitable, but i sprouted nonetheless. i was stepped on and undernourished at times, but i learned to grow strong roots and take in fleeting moments of sunlight. then, one day, you came along. i must have caught your eye when you passed me, because you stopped to admire me. you were taken by my beauty, so you plucked me from my concrete home and put me in your pocket. i remember how colorful your garden was; i'd never seen so much green in my life. you set me down in the dirt and tucked me into the soil with such care and tenderness. my neighbors were tall and strong, vibrant in hues i hadn't thought possible. it was a good life. too good for me. while your other flowers blossomed and bloomed, i shrank and shriveled. you watered and nurtured me, and slowly grew angrier with each of my new wilted leaves.

"WHY AREN'T YOU GROWING"

"I GIVE YOU EVERYTHING"

"I RESCUED YOU"

"SAVED YOU"

"WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT"

i didn't know how to tell you. that this was too good for me. i didn't know how to live. i only knew how to survive. i was tough and hard and couldn't grow in such a lovely garden like your other flowers. you thought you could save me. fix me. all you did was take me away from what i knew and showed me how

truly

broken

i was.

Tear stains leave scars on hollow cheeks,

the girl's pale frame a corpse of skin and bone,

drowning in a too-white dress.

She can hear their whispers

from behind closed doors

"let's go easy on this one."

She sits before the single sheet of paper with glazed eyes.

"Just one poem."

He waits expectantly, halo clutched between long fingers,

ready to snatch the nonsensical ramblings of angels,

sonething sweet about doves in the garden.

But her shaking fingers still as they hover above the cold keys,

the metal seeming to vibrate as she lets a final breath cloud the cold air.

"One last time, old friend," she whispers to the typewriter,

her words ringing through the empty chamber.

And her fingers come down.

Ink spills like blood accross the page, her eyes sparkling with a dark light.

The pounding of keys sounds like a war cry, her heart pounding in time with the rythm, desperate and frantic and free. It is madness and beauty and pain, the story of a life not quite lived, the story of a girl who cut letters from her own soul and stitched them together, praying to nobody in particular that things would change. The story of a lost girl... a loveless girl.

the halo above her shatters,

glass shards raining upon bare arms

drawing ribbons of blood where skin meets bone.

"Why?" He whispers, voice breaking.

"I've never been good with pretty words."