She's on tip toe again,
painful.

Her eyes shine and she's begging
pleading
hands laced
on her knees
weak.

"please" she's sobbing
"See me,

Look at me.

please see this."

She's always sobbing.

weak.

Her hair is worn tightly
spinning and dizzy
a blurry of colors and smells.

Intertwined, braided, laced through.

She's dancing for you,
only you again,
your sweet little poppet,
puppet.

One of her poems can
go on
endlessly.

poorly written and
dying to be noticed.

She's so dramatic,
voice change,
she's dizzy from the effort
exhausted.

No one will know this secret,
no one will know her heart.

no one will understand.

In blues and browns and

her lips are pink with blood.
painful.

She's waiting for you,
in the dark rain of things

to hold her,
make her feel again.

to touch her,
make her alive again.

to hurt her,
make her real again.

She's waiting for you,
her savior

To see.

She just wants someone to see.

do you understand what that even means?

It means your hand reaching out,
fingers soft,
to ignite
(from the ground up)
the image of something wonderful
to steady her last pirouette,
to untie the ribbons,
they're red this time.
they're black this time.
to take her away

on silver pink wings.
no pain
no standing
no effort

softly
sweetly

with tenderness.
with a whisper.

closed eyes,
the sweetest kind.