Once there was a girl.
She young and blond and smart.
Some even called her pretty.
She smelled of lilacs and innocence.
She wore pink dresses and no makeup on her pale porcelain face.
She ate sweets that she bought for a nickel downtown and she had no pain.
She had friends and love.
No hurt.
But eventually that pretty blond girl stopped getting called pretty.
So she cut her blond hair and burned her pink dresses.
And her friends turned out to be fake and her so called love was cheap.
She covered her body and face in cuts and eyeliner.
She started smelling like cigerate smoke and tears instead of lilacs and innocence.
And those sweets turned into pills.
And no one kissed her because it hurt them.
Not her parents, not a boy.
No one.
And she felt hurt.
Well that pretty blond girl that everyone once loved was now just a mask in the back of her closet.
And her new favorite color was red.
Her own special color of red.
A color like no other, it burst out of her everytime she held the razor to her broken porcelain body.
And with that red she wrote on a locked bathroom door one word.
A word that she hoped would explain why she did what she did.
That one word, written on her locked bathroom door, while she slowly slipped away was Hurt.
And all her fake friends and cheap loves would come to wish her goodbye.
She knew they didn't hurt though.
She knew it was just one less freak for them to worry about,
That she would just be something they would store in the part of their mind that was rarely visited.
She would just become a page in the back of the yearbook that had the words 'In memory of' above her photo.
But in her last fleeting seconds she felt no pain.
No hurt.
Nothing.
