she sits by herself, alone in her room and writes little words on a piece of paper. they may not make any sense to you or me but for her, they are her lifeline, her dreams, her silly, little fantasies. little post-it notes are plastered all over her messy desk and walls. they hold the map to her sanity, the only reason she lives-

violets. rain. music. chocolate cupcakes. golden oblivion. burberry. unfinished lyric. mockingbirds. purple haze. look at the fireflies, in the night, they look so bright and green. crescendo. tears. the tears held back on. pride. a little child peeking between the canisters, watching with large doe eyes, her body shaking with the force of his voice.

indeed, they make no sense. but this girl is a poet, an unoriginal one with very boring words and an unappealing style. she has no confidence, whatsover, yet she continues to write, write, write.

have you ever been terrified? so scared you cross your legs and try not to wet your pants? do you know fear, mind-numbing fear, the kind that makes you unable to think clearly? what do you do when the words you write are so painfully real and raw and filled with your own sickening reality? she continues to write secretly in the solace of her room and blinks the tears away, refuses to shed them, lets them tell a story, a story about two young boys who were too scared of love, reality and even worse: the truth?

notes reach a high pitch-

hiding under the blankets, shivering with fear for he must not hear her talking, must not make noise, yesterday the frame got a broken.

crescendo-

she sat there, eyes red and splotchy, hiccuping loudly as she tried to make sense of the numbers, ignoring the heavy breathing near her side, reeking of alcohol.

crash-

holding her cheek, ignoring the red welts on her arms, she will only go up to her room, fix her hair and shed a few tears. the lens will be fixed and life will go on.

for this little girl may be unoriginal, slow, naive and trusting but she dreams of freedom, of hope, of peace. she may not be very strong or very pretty but it doesn't matter. because in the end, she will have her words. one day, she just might read them all and cry a little.