Tortured soul

What your mind depicted, seeing a pretty girl getting picked up in a pick up.

Rushing out with such eagerness, she literally scrambled, dropped her books and took off.

My views from the bottom left window beside the parking lot, not much spoken word more verbs, she stepped out the corridors, tissue caressing her eyelids.

Pain hid amongst her sentences, through every spoken word, she had a hush tone of saying things.

Wasn't a surprise noticing she hadn't said a thing, no protests with regrets, she couldn't fight with the one who;

protects, feeds and pays the bills.

So she steps in.

---

and She steps out, clear in my view, her agony wrapped around her like his scaly serpent skin, indecently and uncomfortably marking out details on her wrists.

But she covers it up, it never happened

The tear stains on her shirt never happened

As she walks up stairs, en route to class, she holds her bag so close to her it seems as though she's a little girl hugging her teddy at night, she's in distress.

With no strive to impress, as other guys would take a second guess, on approaching a girl with a torn up dress, torn up on the outside and inside, she isn't no more the girl I know from next door.

She's a girl I knew,

Last seen on the 7th floor bathrooms

a girl with a hunger for freedom

A crime scene with razor blades and needles.

She merely is, a tortured soul.