Who knew what could cause such pain?
who could have guessed that with each laugh
each smirk
each lie that part of me would step away from the spotlight?
who knew that it would feel as if myself was parishing
like a beautiful flower
becoming black
and withered as
the cold of winter encroaches
i wonder if they knew
those terrible, terrible children
that they are the reason for my scars and tears.
some say my pain isnt real
because i write about it.
that because i feel alright sharing the horror of my soul,
that it does not exist.
but then again
some say they know and love me.
who could love a pile of broken dreams