The girl, she has sad eyes -
shiny like diamonds but deep like the sea
but they're nothing spectacular.
It's like she's constantly trying not to cry
and instead settles halfway,
a little river instead of an ocean.
The girl, she wears long sleeves -
summer through winter, fall through spring,
but what is she hiding?
It's like she's constantly afraid
and it's not her heart she wears on her sleeve,
it's her scars.
The girl, she has blunt nails
short and filed, unpainted and blank,
but they dig into her palms.
It's like a habit that she can't kick,
and it's her way of making sure
she's not dead yet.
The girl, she has a razor,
sterile and sharp, cold and thin,
but it's her best friend.
It's like a make shift paint brush
and it's her skin that's the canvas -
she paints masterpieces.
The girl, she has purple hair -
streaked and thin, lanky and awful,
but she doesn't care.
It's like she wants the attention
and the clumps that brush out
are easily forgotten.
The girl, she has an illness -
starve, binge, purge, starve,
but it's okay.
It's like no one's business, she says,
and is it so bad to want change
when you're a failure?
The girl, she has a secret -
she wrote a suicide note last night
but she doesn't feel sad.
It's like she's made a commitment
to end this life, to just stop living
and she's ready.
The girl, she has a name -
syllables and letters, words and sounds
but it doesn't matter.
It's like something they can't take from her
although they've taken everything else
except her life
(but she can take that herself).
The girl, she has a grave -
small and forgotten, dug and filled,
but she doesn't know that.
It's like a movie scene
and nobody is watching
as it draws to a close.