Look up at the Technicolor sky,

shiny blue with cotton ball clouds.

Darkens, shadows lengthen and dance,

read those words and everything slides out of focus.

Blurry, soft tears well up in my eyes,

makes light stretch and flicker,

But I wipe them away, I'll try to be strong,

I won't let myself cry.

"She needs to hear she's beautiful,"

well perhaps I do too,

though I've never heard it before.

Back away, don't touch me

just leave me alone.

Can't you see I'm lonely?

Can't you see I'm scared?

No matter what I write,

they all nod and say "that's good."

Don't you read it?

Read it… but never comprehend.

This is how I feel.

This is who I am.

Yet no one ever listens.

Hear my words, see my thoughts…

Never listen, never read.

Why would I say, write;

these things if they weren't what I feel?

Take it for fiction- it's not.

When I say I cried, I did.

When I say I'm scared, I am.

When I ask for help, I need it.

But never is it offered;

only say "Do you really feel like this?"

As if they don't believe it,

as if I made it all up

purely for their entertainment.

Please open your eyes, please listen for once to

those whispers that you barely hear:

"I need you to save me too."