• As she pressed her hand against the glass, her solemn sobs echo along the hall, she is alone in a crowded room and her soul cried in a silent way that could be felt by all thoes who passed by. The black streaks of mascara ran down her cheeks and the streaks of blonde peered out of the jet black and crimson hair she had covering the sadness of her eyes from the world.
    She sits alone stroking her hair in a way she wished a boy would do but her esteem dare not let her venture, every night she cries and cuts her wrists til they can bleed no more, her scar riddles arms are like artwork of a tortured artist. No one cares for such a sight as art must be bright and bold in the eyes of the blind, blind to true emotions as they have never lost anything close and dear, their smirks and laughs make her bitter and filled with resent. Is she alone? Or should i say, am i alone?