Lachrymose

Voice.

  I want to sing, scream and write. Yet I can't speak, I can't even hum in front of you (plural) and I guess my pen ran out of blood to write with. I hurt because no one speaks to me but I can't focus enough to talk. Singing is my passion but the fear of being mediocre keeps me from referencing anything lyrical. I write but it's as though I'm engraving the paper; with no ink to mark it, everyone fails to notice. Similar to how I too am overlooked. I'm not claiming to be worth your glance because I know I'm not, but isn't it that knowledge that makes me so interesting? 

So, curiosity brings you to the girl ignoring the world as she escapes into a better one inside a book, she looks up with those dark eyes that are older than her years and have an aged sadness to match. Seeing this confuses you, making you reconsider your decision to communicate with her. What you didn't realise was how although she'd unwillingly left her fictional dream, just how much she would have appreciated that small human contact. So she pulls out a pen and puts it to paper, her hand shaking as she finds herself unable to voice her thoughts. Instead she pulls at her hair, out of what? Disgust? Despair? Disassociation? Daunting revelations? Well I guess you'll never know, since you never asked.