Picking the skin 'round my bloody finger

They say laugh at her it's not like it's gonna kill her

I've dreamt of their mocking in every nightmare

Why have I never dreamt instead, of a savior

What a joke it would be if they tried to see her

What a joke it would seem if she was more than just peculiar

She's never been to a place where they haven't mocked her

She's never seen a face that tried to get to know her

They never wished for the company of someone like her

Oh, they'll say they're just teasing

She's just sensitive and overthinking

She always despised the fact that she was her

The women in the mirror was too familiar

Eyes too hollow, soul too unwise

Too quite in company, too big in size

She felt like Medusa, unwanted company

A forgettable little girl

Utterly disposable pearl

She felt like a poet, a soul fated to remain unseen

Until she wrote her prose, 'til she wrote her soul

Until she mended her heart and it's many bullet holes

Until she wrote poetry, until her life became known

Then they sympathized,

Then they realized,

Then they apologized,

But my mind does not forget

My heart does not forgive

Instead I write the poetic whispers of my soul

Suffering surely leaves a heavy toll

How lucky am I, for I am not a soul that aimlessly roams

How lucky am I, for I know the joy of writing poems

© Aubrin