She can't escape the reality

Her name is pain and suffering. Her name is death and destruction. Her name is carnage and chaos.

She smells of metholated spirits and of single socks. She smells of rain on hot stone. And of sleepless dyslexia. She smells of impurities washed away by tears.

She is hopelessly despairing. She is hopefully destroying. She wants to be good. She doesn't want to cause a fuss.

She is crying gentle tears into her pit of oblivion. She is weeping for those she is destroying. Don't try to tell her she plays no part in this. She isn't listening any more.

She knows what she should do. She always knows. She knows that she is too selfish, too full of cowardice, too vain.

You tell her. You tell her from me that she is worth more than this. You tell her from me that this will come to no good. No good, she isn't listening. She isn't listening any more.

She can't escape the reality. The scars on others' wrists. The bathtubs full of watered down blood. The handprints left as a final alarm. The gun against innocent, unwitting heads. She tells herself it isn't her fault. She isn't listening. She's not listening to herself. Not any more.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]