she can't see it.

she looks for an excuse to continue
though her mind cant seem to find one.
it scrambles through memories
and DM conversations,
ignoring the compliments
and words of encouragement.
she sees what she believes.
she feels the searing hot metal
of non-existent insults
branded on her skin.
she thinks flattery clashes
with the black of her clothing,
and the bags under her eyes.
that ingrained notion of self-hate
causes her to talk herself out of living,
as strangers beg for her to stay.
she doesn't believe them.
she doesn't see what they see.
she craves intimacy,
but is unable to ask for it.
she wants to feel her hands
intertwined with his,
but knows she can't have him.
holding on to the thread of hope
that she is barely able to make out
in the darkness of her reality.
the thread of hope that one day
someone might make her feel
truly alive.