They only see what's wrong with her.

People whisper as they see the blood,

the blood on her pale wrists,

and streaming down her muddy face.

People whisper and ask why her

hair isn't made up in black curls.

People whisper and ask what's

behind the shadows that surround

her hollowed-in face, that mask.

But all she wants to do is run,

but turn around once just so she can

scream. And ask them one last question

"What's wrong with being me?"