Her Face All Painted

By SocratesAngel

Poetry is all she can give him, scribbled on a notebook held close to her heart.

He never knew of those long nights where she'd cry just to hang on.

All of these things running wild inside her head came pouring out like black mascara on a Friday night.

Her eyeliner was thrown the day he left, and all of the concealers and creams just never had a good reason to cover.

He figured she was just another lonely teenage girl.

Just another that spent her Friday nights with slumber parties and boys she didn't know.

That's how she wanted it. Wanted it more than anything.

But her life was filled with stories and poems written on bits of paper and tossed to the winds.

Smart, sweet, and 'not their type', was the way they all described her.

All the boys she wanted to spend those lonely Friday nights with.