I try to kill her. Every night.

She's no idea what to do,
or who to go to.

nobody wants her,
least thats how she feels.

she loves him,
or she thinks she does.

but how could she?
when has he?

These thoughts,
like a disese,
help to ease
her troubled soul.

can we not help her?
ease her through the process..
the pain.

whatever once drove her on,
has been slain.

she's no reason now,
mot to one to live.

not a whisper escaped her lips,
as the blood dripped off his finger tips.

murder.
but not intentional.

because sometimes we die,
even though we're still alive.

sometimes we go through life,
without a rhythm or rhyme.

no light to break up the darkness,
no words to fill the silence,
no hands to mend the broken heart,
but always more sorrow to shatter it,
again and again.

When all the world is against her,
she turns against herself.
she tries to be someone else.

She changes her name,
cuts and dyes her hair,
puts on new clothes.
switches schools.
But she can't leave this life behind.
She can't leave this house.
And her hair isn't the only thing that dies.
Her hopes die with it,
and all of her heart and soul go too.

Now she's just a shell.
Fake smiles and empty eyes,
just things to go along with fake happiness
And an empty heart, soul, and life.

All this time she's spent...
just waiting for you.
Has changed her world.
Has changed her perspective on life.

She watched you fall in love,
not once but twice.
Now all she can feel
is hate.

Not for you...
no never for you.
for herself.
For the monster she sees...
when she looks in the mirror.

For the hatrewd she has for herself,
when she cuts her wrists.
And burns reminders of you,
in to her skin.

She's sick.

Twisted.

Wrong.

She's an abomination.
Even to herself.

That's why I try so hard to be someone else.

I'm so sick of being her.