A misanthrope
That's what they call her
She holds vehement hatred for all humans
But the one she hates the most
Is herself

The phone lying beside her
Holds messages full of invective
"Despicable, pathetic, wretched"
She replies to the messages with what is in her left hand
A blade

She drags it across her frail, pale skin
Letting the red liquid ooze out
Slowly at first and then all at once
Such an aggrieved girl
One might say

But this is only the beginning
Soon the voices will not only come from her fellow peers
But also the dark conscious blanketed beneath her skull
As it manifests itself into her every thought
"Worthless," it says

And the escape?
There is none
She must persevere through the battles
And hope that one day the voices will diminish
For how do you escape
what is inside your head?