She's the one with the dog-eared books and the backpack worn thin at the bottom.
Empty lunchbox with dirt smeared on its white face, and cobwebs clinging to the inside like dust in a vacant house.
Gnarly scars hidden under her long skirts and patched-up jeans.
Screaming to be seen by unsympathetic eyes.
Shes the one that walks down the hallway with her thoughts glued to the floor. Beautiful cracks in the slick linoleum. An accidental masterpiece, just as smeared, worn, and dull as her past.
