They all see her:
that girl,
all dressed in black.
They never talk to her;
they’re too frightened she’ll attack.
They know what she’s done,
but, not why she has;
they think she’s desperate for attention.
They’re wrong.
She never asks.
They don’t know her dreams about the black parade.
They don’t know how much she wishes the scars could just fade;
how much she wishes the memories could go;
how much she wishes her personality could be her friend,
not her foe.
She had the same, the same old diary, but,
with a different show.
It had everything about her in it:
a place where the tears and demons could go;
a place where negative feelings could be projected and not rejected;
a place where she wasn’t drowning in tears;
a place where the words didn’t suffocate her, and
be the centre of her fears.
But this safe place,
this balance against hell,
was stolen by a book thief.
The fairies;
they sent her to this hell.
But, this girl, she’s nothing more than me:
a desperate teen.
Who wishes you could see.