For Ryu. Thanks for not giving up on me when I gave up on myself and never abandoning me no matter how helpless I became.


This is a story of a girl. Who screamed so loud she tasted blood from the back of her throat. And thus begins our story, a stupid little story about a stupid little girl crying in the world

She feels so alone even though her family tells her they love her every waking day. She seems so ungrateful - playing the victim despite the fact that she has a million loyal friends. Her heart has never been broken. Nor has it ever been touched. She wasn't wistful and she was more logical than fantasies. She didn't feel humane enough to daydream.

She sits in her empty room staring blankly at the walls, wondering. Her thoughts touch and go but as the hours past, she has yet to find the reason to the answers she never voiced. Why? No one knows. Not even her.

All her life, she subconsciously played a part. The real her never existed .She didn't know who she was. She wasn't lost. She just existed. At night, she sleeps at the mercy of sleepless nightmares and whispers to herself. Of all the wonderful things happening in her life, she grows colder and more distant, unappreciative of reality. She craves her own white deathbed. She is only a slave to herself after all.

Sometimes, rarely, a glimpse of light shines upon her glass prison and the beautiful spectrums bouncing off the walls give her a tiny taste of bitter hope she might escape someday. Quickly as the hope comes, it vanishes without a trace, leaving her at breaking point, veering over the edge, desperate to escape her inner demons, mind screaming but never blinking an eye.

She cares too much to be apathetic but she's not heartless enough to not feel at all, just not feel much should the occasion rise. The word to describe her might be pathetic, but nothing seems to suit her anymore. Sunlight burns her pasty skin, leaving bright marks of resentment behind. Her voice, quite unused, ring loud and harsh, expert faking a laugh every few hours.

The smile on her face will never reach her blind eyes, her touch touches nothing but open deceit. Unsure and wavering of solid grounding reality, she walks a path constructed of pitiful, almost laughable paranoia.

They know, she knows, everyone knows but they never dare raise the issue to her face. Instead, they hug her and give her more pills, hoping that a miracle hidden in the lethal powder would, no, could suppress the unpredictable urges. As if life was ever that easy.

It wasn't the drowning in despair, or the tugging of the inescapable black hole that tore her up inside. It was the same sense of reassurance and kind eyes that kiss her no matter the suffering, she shies from the undeserving aid.

Mistaken, they think she might like her current state; the predicaments could only get better right? Should she ever change or snap the tempo, she'll realize that redemption is just around the corner. Friends care. They linger until the end. The ones who prove themselves are rewarded.

She finds salvation in grieving

She finds company in the shadows.

She thinks loneliness is regretting disappointment forehand.

She finds insomnia a pleasant alternative to the never-ending nightmares.

She finds her self-destruction a beacon of pride.

Meaningless words from endless lost hours, still forlorn so much later.

She is a pathological liar, the best of indecision and more addictive than methamphetamine.

Love is fickle, pain is inevientable and dreams are better left in your head. Friendship is valuable, sincerity is never predictable but life moves on. She just has yet to realize.

Some things are letter left forgotten. Some memories are best left buried six feet under. Some people never understand the obvious.

She's hooked on her own broken shards, constantly trying to put them together, when they're better left untouched.