See thats the thing between you and her. You're getting better and she's getting worse. She ductapes her sadness with a smile and cries in silence. No one notices her bruises and cuts because theyre within. No one pays attention to the girl coming into the room laughing. No one could imagine the rotting brain she drags into the room, the overflowing poison her heart consumes. Drowning in music that tell her it'll be okay, breathing underwater because that's what everyone tells her to do. She's underwater. Under . Water. Do you see her lungs exploding? Trying to expand and failing? Do you feel her dying? Can you see the bubbles as she lets go of the last breath.. Suicidal, they'll call her. Another statistic, another failure during development. Few will remember her laugher, fewer will remember her smile. None will forget the tears she cried on paper, her personal ink. The scratches on the sides of that looseleaf paper during classes. She was so happy, they'd recall. Impaired Suicidal. Broken because she couldn't speak the words she spoke on those pages of hers. It will sting in their hearts the amount of times she had cried for a hand.. A moment of attention in the form of lyrical poems. They new her, they'd say. They'd share stories with others. Grievers. But they'd be silent when they question they're loyalty. Guilt. She was grieving while alive, guilty of keeping her secrets. We all took part in her death. We all kissed the wounds in her heart. We all killed her.