The pile of white crisp paper sheets never build up by her bed
And the folders in the corner are ordered alphabetically.
The room's got floral curtains and a bookshelf, walls painted duck egg
Dinner with her parents and she's smiling synthetically.
School days are long but seemingly not long enough
She has a small blue satchel and a favourite brown coat.
The air's cold in the mornings and she breathes in frosty puffs
Hands rubbing together as speech is trapped in her throat.
Getting by with green minds in clouds of smoke
Lungs are burned out from the insides and fingertips, the outside.
Inhaling like a goddess, she's learned not to choke,
And she exhales heavily like the moon releasing the tides.
Later on there's the needles... or powders at times, maybe pills
She took anything that she could get her artist's fingers on.
Sterile and secluded - it took away the thrill
Of killing herself slowly, cell by cell until there were none.
Bright lights and sirens and search teams alike
She was only asleep on the ground for a while
Wrapped up warm for the lifeless night
No evidence, none at all but the atmosphere was vile.
Sudden suspicion, she faced the worst.
Family, in bad times, are optimistic at best.
Once a clean and perfect child, she lost all worth
and once again she found herself valued on a test.
Grade A student and at least that hasn't changed.
She held her head high for never once had she bailed.
Calm and collected though in her mind, deranged.
That one small test was the only test she'd ever failed.
