She’s fourteen.
Medium height, slender,
waist-length hair as blue as her eyes.
She once broke her bed
with a baseball bat.
Cuts her arms with kitchen knives.
Pounds the wall until bruises
blossom on her knuckles
like poison flowers.
Misanthrope,
she seethes and boils
at the foolishness of others.
She hates everyone.
Alone at night she cries, sobs out
the busted machinery of her heart.
She wants to be loved,
but pushes people away.
She hates herself most of all.
