A late-night rambling...read on if you dare...

Some things are taken from my life, and some aren't...it doesn't matter much which are which

She doesn’t want you to see her. She’s beautiful in every way; flawless, it would seem, but she doesn’t want the world to see her. She doesn’t want the world to know that her beautiful red lips are just waiting to spill out lies, and that her mesmerizing eyes hold secrets in their tears. She doesn’t want the world to see her mistakes, or her flaws. She doesn’t want them to see her scars. She has scars, yes, many in fact. Emotional scars, from when she’s been hurt after giving someone her heart. Physical scars, from when her daddy drank just a little too much and she couldn’t get out of his way fast enough. Mental scars, because when people get raped, the assaulter takes a little bit of their sanity, also. This beautiful, perfect girl doesn’t want the world to see her scars. She doesn’t think they’d understand.

And they wouldn’t. I know that they wouldn’t, because I used to be that beautiful, perfect girl. I used to hide myself from the world. I hid my scars. The one’s people left, and the one’s I gave myself. I used to be that girl, but I made the mistake of reaching out for help. I made the mistake of trying to cling onto someone who I thought to be strong, who I thought could pull me away from my dark, little room, and bring me out with the rest of civilization. I used to be that girl. And then I was the liar. The crybaby. The psycho-slitter that wanted all the attention for herself. I didn’t try to become those things. That was how they labeled me. No one understood.

So when I see this girl, this beautiful, perfect, scared girl, I don’t reach out to her with loving arms. I don’t suffocate her with comfort, or tell her my own sob story to make her feel a bit better about hers. When I see this girl, I knee down in front of her, and I say to her “Run.” She doesn’t ask what I mean. She doesn’t need to; she’s smart. She’s so smart she takes my advice. She stands without hesitation and walks away.

And she walks out of town, and she doesn’t come back. She walks into a new town, a new life; a better one, I hope, for her sake. It’s wistful thinking, I know, but I hope anyway. People like her and I, we’ll never have the chance at a better life. We can find a better situation, and a better place to be, but our lives will never get better.

The world won’t allow it.