drafts & thoughts

that girl

She was a maniac. Well, I couldn't tell you what she looked like, but I know she was crazy, insane. Her way of fidgeting with her hands was nerve-wracking. She didn't look any way, she was just crazy, scared. I could barely glance in her direction. She wouldn't speak, just mumble to herself "It doesn't matter" a concerning ammount of times. And annoying, because behind all her flattery and smart facade, she didn't get anything done. Just stared at the sky. I guessed it was to hide her uselessness she made those meaningless pieces of art, poetry paragraphs. Empty art, empty stories. Meaningless to everyone but her, because it was forced. Her poetry felt like she ripped off her soul into her writings, instead of sharing it beautifully, meaningfully. She might have been a flower, yes, but forcing its way into a forest she didn't belong to. And everything has its own place, I know. But who would find a place for her and her empty soul? She would lose more of herself with each word she wrote. I even thought it wasn't writing, it was stabbing, when I saw her aggresive and fast writing on that small notebook, filled with nothingness. It was screams, it was bleeding, it wasn't something people would want to see, to read. 

No one cared about her, but it felt like we had to clean her blood over and over again. And I remember "I am sorry, it won't happen again." The words sent a shiver down my spine, because they were so pathetically useless. "I try it over again and again and again and..." She covered her mouth with her hand, forcing herself to stop. Slowly, she spoke once again. "And I can't breathe when I'm scared."

I didn't reply, because why would I?