Her soul was made from asking to be partners
with the people in class who had no friends.
She cries for the shooting stars never seen and for the flares that are mistaken as such.
When her tears reach her exterior
They glimmer and sparkle just like she did when she buried her goldfish and when she buried her grandmother.
To stand next to her
is like standing next to a saint
during confession
and expecting to still look like a good person.
She is an intact canvas painted entirely pale yellow.
And i am the painting next to her
with a white back round
marred with red and black
all torn into.
A clean cut girl being held
by a promiscuous boy
who thinks she is holding her heart
until he's the one who drops hers.