She writes just to write. She doesn't type out the words for anyone else but herself and she doesn't expect anyone to care about them the way she does. They are just for her. They are her escape. She doesn't find her happiness or her calm in a person or a place. She finds it in sonnets that are meant to break hearts and poems that are meant to crush souls. The words that hurt the most are the ones that mean the most, after all. Not all of the ugly words could become beautiful, though, no matter how beautiful the people she imagined spoke them. Some of the words cut through her like a knife through butter and she couldn't stop them. They came to life and beat her until she couldn't stand or breathe or speak, which was so ironic. Not all words were beautiful, and neither were all people. The words taught her this. While she was stringing them together to create beautifully sorrowful pictures or heart-wrenchingly depressing songs, they taught her of the people that the world hid. The outcasts, the rejects, the troublemakers. These people taught her what life was. They made her drink their burning drinks and smoke their suffocating smoke. They blackened her lungs and weakened her liver, trying to make her understand. The drinks were bitter, the smoke sour. They didn't benefit her. They didn't benefit them. She saw that they didn't realize this, so she began searching. She looked for words that would make them understand, the perfect ones to make them open their eyes. She looked higher than heaven and deeper than hell, flying until she suffocated and digging until her fingers bled. She wanted better for those outcasts, those rejects, those troublemakers, those misled and misunderstood souls because that's how she saw them; as souls, not as problems. She knew what others didn't, she knew better...
