A baby pink shell of crusted texture
surrounds thick, bobbed hair and a lilac shirt.
Books shelved misunderstood
in a loving manner.
A rustic bed post decorated with sticker,
the smell gently sweet and mild
from an encyclopedia within starfish hands
Sand. Paint. Clay.
They watch her laugh,
she does well at school and she doesn’t notice.
Childish laughter. A nosebleed on the carpet.
Lost teeth and dinosaurs.
The three wooden doors that she confused together.
The books make her smile again
from when the ignorance of people ushers tears.
She is liked, joyful and tolerant
between the baby pink walls, curtains and sheet.
Her hair strings the uniform
amongst the smell of her school.
Mythology and Morpurgo spurs her soul,
they take her away.
She writes often, to herself, to others, to the world.
To anyone willing to listen,
her eyes water and her heart pulls
when her brain works faster than her small hand.
The pencil rubs her pink fingers,
back turned to three tall doors.
The four walls are sexually pink,
offering black daisies
and a cold grandmother’s bed.
Lines of graves reside in the wind,
her mind watches them from the warmth
as her cries become scarce.
Her novels are desperate, sparser
she glimpses the mirror
and she reads faster.
Frustrated violin calls and numb fingertips.
Cheap perfumes linger,
sickly and discomforting
in a darkening air as her eyes redden.
Gods and Goddesses spit sparks,
she is unsure of her friends.
She curls up, alone,
inside the third wooden door.
Strands of hair soften her underfoot and clothing,
her skin is textured and raw.
She cannot look at herself,
she is scared of friends and does not read.
The system distracts her failing mind
and she cries,
the noise and blood falling from metallic lips.
A sickening confusion mists her every action.
The walls are white and suffocating
in a room she does not leave.
A tapestry hangs over envy,
she wants to write but chokes.
Dust over books,
smoke over mind.
Furniture is taller,
the people around her fall to pieces.
There is power in being alone
yet her tangled limbs are weak
and her thoughts are dead.
She is ignorant of her strength
and spits her feelings into two of the wooden doors.
Thin hair is pulled loosely to her head,
she hasn’t cried for a long time.
Art is stuck on every wall
and the shelves are stacked with books.
She writes words upon words,
A woven rug constellated with
red and freckles
rainbows and flecks.
Teeth of metal,
mind of steel.
She is wanted, she is invited
to places where people want her to be.
Doubt still remains
as a feeling not a control.
Lights adorn every surface,
the room glows and the air is warm.
A heavy, colourful duvet.
A cork board of memories to her right.
A trio of doors to her left.