cure.for.snow

Nothing can touch her now. The bitterness she once felt vanish crept back into her eyes last night. How dare they. Look at her... now she wants to pluck out her skin again until its raw and bleeding like the plastic knives and safety pins of her angsty over-dramatic past. "Look at me", she used to try to tell the world, "I hurt. I fucking hurt". Now there isn't any tracery, no attention deprived, kohl-lined eyes to stare pleadingly into to eyes of others. She had to realise, one day, one doesn't have to be unique to hurt, to feel pain. Its not something set aside for painfully thin 15 year olds who kiss boys&girls and inhale ragweed like oxygen. They parody their own lives while giving it away for a pitiful glance, a bottle of White Horse, or teased and twisted platinum hair, bleached as white as God. Her name used to be Nothing. She had no Ghost, no Zillah, no Molochai... no youth.
The emphasis of pain converts it to something else, an art, something beautiful. Look outside, she is looking at the snow now, she can't cry, no she can't. She wants to one day, to let it all out, but she can't. She knows how to feel... but not how to paint her silver and blue on this lost winter night.