She's a simple seventeen.
World's an open door, but yet
her inside twists and turns because
she feels a million feelings more.

Bite your tongue, sit up straight,
cross your legs, never be late.
Empty words, but she obeys.
Becoming who she was yesterday.
Outside, she stays. Constant and kind.
It's sickening. Her daily grind becomes
a record overplayed.
A melody that haunts her days.
And lost became her soul in tunes that
sang of a girl she never knew.
And as the river called her name,
a siren whisper, under waves,
she met with lead to tell those, whom
attempted to bring her face to blush hue,
empty apologizes for even words
became things that weren't hers.

But as the wrist flicked back and forth,
something stirred within her heart.
The long dead thing beat quietly,
and although she was scared,
she continued writing.
On that paper, the girl
who died found out
she wrote to come alive.
She found herself, in a literary sea.
And it was then I realized that girl
was me.