• The outcast, a single child,
    Still human....But... Not quite.
    Lost in her own imagination,
    Living only in light.

    The other people, wary,
    Watched her write, watched her walk,
    Watched her live.
    And, no matter what they tried,
    She couldn't suffer for a single moment.

    Another child, a little less strange,
    Absorbed in books and carried a proud name,
    Caught her eye as he walked by.

    Smiling, they claimed the other's hand,
    Or so it was said...
    That lasted for a while,
    Until a rival in love shot the boy dead.

    She saw him,
    He had died,
    That night she cried,
    And she, too, was shot, but it was suicide.

    The next day,
    only the bodies were found.
    One was dead and still,
    The other was sleeping sound.

    Months later, the girl awoke,
    And much to her disgrace,
    The bullet hole was healed
    On the side of her tear-streaked face.

    There she lay, still and silent...
    Crying...
    Dying...
    Sad, but true, her broken heart continued to beat,
    And eventually she was forced to sleep and eat.

    For a moment, on the outside,
    Everything seemed fine.
    Until someone noticed,
    That her bright aura ceased to shine.

    Paper after paper,
    Pen after pen,
    She wrote, she wrote, she wrote.
    All that she wrote was poetry,
    Describing how she thought,
    What about death she sought,
    And how her soon to be dead body
    Would never be caught.

    She then vanished.
    The people searched, again and again,
    But all that was left was discarded poetry...
    Discarded pen.

    The rival who had killed to claim her hand,
    Had seen it all,
    And finally to the courage to stand,
    And said,

    "Only she knows
    How love and loneliness feels,
    Only she knows
    How silence truely kills,
    Only she knows
    What it's like....
    To die inside...."

    Thus, she was never seen again.