Having friends doesn’t mean you’re not alone.
She wandered the halls, emotionless.
She smiled, waved, greeted others as she normally would.
But it wasn’t the same, something was off.
She knew what was off.
She’d lost her everything.
Right now, she is a shell.
Empty and delicate.
Her eyes don't sparkle with life.
Her movements are somewhat forced, almost robotic.
Her voice is cheerful, but is missing that happy chirp.
Faking is art.
She ignores the instructors in her classes.
Choosing instead to write or draw.
The music drowning everything out.
A love song.
Having multiple creative outlets on the desk in front of her as she loses her mind in the void of thoughts inside.
Everything is fading.
Conscious and curiosity.
Wonder and life.
She is becoming a shadow of her normal self.
The dance, simply routine.
Until, a smirk.
No, a real smile.
Someone just made her laugh, her cheeks crease and curve with the motion.
The darkness fades to creep at the edge of her conscious.
The culprit, a young boy.
A young man.
His hand is outstretched for hers, asking to dance.
Her laugh was accusing him of pitying who she thought was ugly.
His response, a compliment of beauty.
Her face lights up, her hand gently taking his.
He brought her to the floor and she let him dance with her.
But it was temporary.
The song faded, as did her honest smile.
She thanked him for the dance and went home.
Darkness returned, as it always did.
Laughter, joy, happiness.
What once was everything.
Her only savior.
She saw blood that night, as she did every night.
Then hid the culprit, like always.
The next morning started as the last did.
Wake up, empty.
The day flew by, plastered on fake smile.
It’s been so long since she truly felt happy.
The dance, a glimpse.
The boy, not enough.
Her boy, from then.
Her boy was enough.
Her boy was gone.
She was gone.
Walking around in a shell.
The darkness has consumed her.
No light could breach it.
Her old self, vanished.
Light was forever forgotten.
With him, she always won the battles.
Always came out on top.
On her own,
She has lost the war.
At the walls
Inside my head
Their way out.
I cannot stop
Of unending pain.
I’m gone now.
Shall it be we are’t only star-crossed as was Montague to Capulite, or shalt we listen to thee quarreling words of our family’s to take thee hearteth of each person in thy owneth simply to exist for unto the morrow. As Romeo was to thee fair Juliet, I shalt hope he not to be what is forbidden to thyself as thy mother shall seith to be.