pretty words

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."