There was a girl that I used to know,
who would cry to the heavens above
from the bathroom floor.
Whispering her prayers to an empty room.
Confiding in the walls that she could not take much more.
She was in desperate need of some love,
to drown out the hate she felt for herself inside.
There must have been a hundred nights just like this,
where she tried to pray away her thoughts of suicide.
And she would pray until she had no voice,
she would pray because she thought that it was her only choice.
And sometimes she would grow silent
and with her eyes closed so tight,
she would imagine herself living a completely different life.
She would dream up scenarios in her head
a place without pain, a place where no tears would be shed.
But her nights grew even lonelier,
and she was no longer interested
to wait and see what would happen,
instead decided that here dreams were all dead.
And I could not tell you how many nights
that she spent exactly like that.
I could not tell you how many nights
passed her by.
But if you could count the scars on her skin,
maybe you could have made an educated guess.
Maybe if someone could have interpreted the signals,
or maybe if there would have been a sign
that was heaven-sent,
she would have wanted to live again.
But right now I guess
that heaven never got her messages.
Or maybe someone killed the messenger,
all that I know is that a response was never received.
Because there is no longer a sender.
