My Problem With The Girl In The Photo


She looks like she hasn't slept in days

I want to ask if the bags under her eyes are too heavy for her face.

Rivers had eroded any form of rest

The monsters under her bed now haunt her dreams

She lays on a bed of broken promises and upside down hourglasses


Her mouth is actress.

Dressed in "Yeah, I'm fine" and "I'll tell you later."

She always finds herself in lights

But behind closed doors

She strips herself into a frown


Her cheeks are rounded photo albums

Always red and ready to show

They hold memories that she's not ready to talk about, yet.

Like the valleys and mountains that are weathered into her freckles

Or the time they felt a new, welcoming sense of warmth 


Her hands are melted into fists

Ready to punch through battles that have been long fought

Instead of fighting for the cause…

She wipes it away

And tells herself that one more fist doesn't make a difference


She has the cascaded chaos on her head

Her fingers travel amongst the strands and always get lost

It's the battle ground for the Civil War she calls "Everyday"

It's not the same as it once was

The more battles you fight… the more it turns into a war.


My problem with the girl in the photo

Is that she's everything I hate

She's knitted into everything I want to change

She doesn't see all she can be.

She reflected all the parts of "A good kid"

"A smart kid"

"A happy kid".


My problem with the girl in the photo

Is that she can't hear me.

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