There is a girl here/She spends hours looking out windows/tracing swirls on her skin with a finger/Sometimes I think she's imagining freedom/mostly I imagine she's thinking nothing at all/  Everyone here is broken/but while we still exchange false smiles/she hasn't said a word for months/If you try to speak to her/her eyes will slowly drift from the window to yours/and she will look as if she can see every one/of her sorrows in your eyes/  We aren't allowed sharp things here/but if you look closely you might see/how sometimes her swirling finger/digs in just a little too deep/  The night before I was finally supposed to leave here/I woke up to the sound of shuttering sobs, "What's wrong?"/I ask the dark trembling creature curled up on the bed/"It hurts," she whispered. "What hurts?"/Between gasps, her face contorted in pain, she forced out,/"Being alive."/  (I stroked her wet face, brushing away the tears/I brushed back her damp hair, kissed her soft, red cheek/I paused to breathed in her air and kissed her salty lips/Finally, I took a pillow and held it down gently but firmly/Her trembling hand reached up and grabbed mine/ her thumb stroked mine slowly, affectionately/Until it stopped) 

This poem is about: 
Our world


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