PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

She was just a kid, maybe sixteen, maybe seventeen, maybe fourteen going on forty… a kid. Troubled…misunderstood… refusing or excepting surrender with long thin red flags upon her wrists. Who knows, maybe her family cared, maybe she was there because they didn’t. Maybe they didn’t know what to say or do anymore, how to help. Maybe she was born with it, a fire in her soul raging out of control needing to be released from under her skin like toxins in sweat. Maybe she just liked the colour red. Maybe if the people who didn’t know her, never met her, lived cushioned lives in cushioned homes with families who had all their needs met, maybe if they met her they could have seen, could have known, that she’d kill herself six weeks after they closed the only doors that were ever open to her. Maybe, who knows…