The girl in the wheelchair

Nonetheless I do remember the girl with the expressionless look on her face.

Fireworks inside of her, going off.

This event that seems to intrigue everyone,

but what about her?

She's sick.

Sick of the pain the explosions give from within.

I walk past her atleast twice a day.

When did she shave her hair off?

She's walking today, she's not tomorrow.

"I've written about you" i want to say,

But what she has isnt poetry nor is it beautiful.

It's all the stars that have died, accumulating into one giant black hole.

Soon it'll engulf even her.

One day I happened to walk into her class.

Now I know her favorite color, and it astonishes me how purple was never mine.

Her hobbies include music and drawing.

Perfectly human, yet not perfectly fine.

I dont understand why good things happen to good people.

When you're gone I will remember you.

Not as the sick girl,

Or as the girl in the wheelchair.

But as the girl who as many others, deserved a chance.