Stitches

Broken Open

They say she's clumsy.

They say she's insane.

They say she's finally broke.

Broken,
Open.
Open.
O
P
E
N.

She's broken open,
Often seen moping.

She thinks of old times,
And all the little nursery rhymes,
Her mother used to sing.

Back when she thought she had wings.

They call her ditsy.

Dizzy.

Izzy. They call her Izzy.

Her friends call her 'demon.'

It's a joke. She knows it is.

She can't help but think that her friends are better as is.

Without her in their life,
To cause mess and strife.

Without her fake laughter.

After all,
She really didn't matter.

Her friends were bright,
Always shining like light.

She though,
She was dark,
The pain in her life a clear mark.

Maybe it was her eyes,
A little to lifeless and full of lies.

Maybe it was her lips,
Twisting stories for kicks.

She'd give a leg for a care,
But yet she knows,
No one will be there.

Not when it matters,
Not when she cries,
And not when she decides she wants to die.

No one will be there to see her end,
No one there to see her break and bend.

No one to cry when she's away.

No one to give her the time of day.

No one to wipe the tears gone,
No one to sing the same old song,
When she's feeling down,
And her face is twisted into a frown.

No one to tell her that she's important.

No one to call her name.

No one to cry when her death finds her fame.

No one to see,
What she wishes she could be.

She's broken.

Mostly seen moping.

Her eyes are glazed,
Filled with pain.

Her lips twist words,
But her true thoughts can't be heard.

"Save me,
Help me,
Set me free.

Because I no longer desire to be."

She's broken open,
No feelings to spare.

But then again,
They were never really there.

Because she's always been broken open.

Now they,
All the people who have said cruel things,

Have managed to break open farther,
An already broken thing.