"who was she?"
Her ears burned.
Thoughts tossed about her room.
On the walls.
All over her floor.
The corners of her bed, where the sheets met the ground.
She could lightly trace her ankle bones.
Circling continuously, a soft paint brush
... against her soft skin.
She was a girl the age of sixteen.
With paint stains across her body of bruises.
And blood that pulsed in vivid colors across her body.
She was stuck somewhere.
or somewhere close to home.
Underneath shirts and scarves she wore around her
and fragile neck.
She knew she was growing, but
she refused to consume more than
the amount her mind could bare.
She could've been considered lean, she would bend backwards
for her family and friends.
She loved boys, she loved girls.
All she wanted was to make a difference.
Build a smile.
Shed a tear.
But the only words she repeated
the only ones that her ink would write
" who am i?"
And in every single moment of time
She wasnt always there
she was never really seen by her friends.
Somewhere she was confused.
The truth was...
This sixteen year old troubled girl
who was covered in an abundant amount of paint...