Poetry

She's the girl with the too long fingers,
with the bones that seem to want to break free of her too tight skin.
The one with the poetry written on her pale, near translucent skin,
string's of words that all seem to say the same thing: Help me.

The blue black bruises under her eyes show of the sleeplessness of her nights,
where, in her room,
she whispers her secrets and broken promises to the walls.

She rises with the sun,
joints creaking and popping,
as she tries to ready herself to face the on coming day,
where she'll push through and fake that she's fine.

She'll find more poetry to write on her arms,
hoping someone will read it,
hoping someone will understand the hidden message.
Wishing someone would save her.

[Too many words are running through my head.]