Scatter,

Scatter,

Scatter.

Across the tile floor are pastels painted by the shadows of guilt.

It's time for bedtime little girl!

Near and dear,

Lying on the floor,

Crying as she bleeds,

She feels incomplete.

She isn't feeling good about herself.

The abuse grips her shoulders.

A dark side whispers inside her mind,

"What's been unsaid denies our lies."

Okay.

She seems perfect.

Like porcelain.

Her skin,

Never stained.

Never painted with the hues of red nor blue.

A ghost in everyone's prescence.

Thus it had been.

Had.

A decade of abuse and neglect.

The demons plagued her mind.

The grip tightened on her heart as the harsh years went by.

Though she may have had a couple of eposides,

Her blank face didn't project her cries for help.

Nothing compared with the paintbrush by her side.

The paint brush projecting the knife.

It ran across her flesh, painting all the colors of relief.

Crimson stains after all!

Pity.

What a shame.

She wished it could end.

She didn't want to bawl till her slumber.

In her mind,

It seemed pleasant.

The darkness agrees with her.

But now,

The screams raising to an instense rate.

It pleads for finis.

It doesn't want to work anymore.

No one noticed,

The darkness projected by her lies.

The darkness lied by whispering,

"Everyone else doesn't give a shit!"

To her,

Anytime,

She felt the urge to speak about the burden.

That is the burden of perfection.

The door squeaks.

A woman sees her daughter sleep.

She doesn't leave her daughter's side.

In the sanctuary, they all cry.

Whine, whine, whine!

Worry, worry, worry!

What a pity of living!

Why?

She can't denie.

Suicide.