She was very sensitive.
As if the volume was turned up in her head.
She started using her mother’s sedatives,
As a solution for her sleepless nights in bed.
She couldn’t connect with any of her relatives,
They never showed an interest in anything she said.
Her attempts at socialising were tentative,
So she conjured up imaginary friends instead.
Her dogged detachment was her only imperative.
She could not risk the chance of being misled.
There was no one to peel back the layer of negatives.
Too many years of tears have been bred and shed.
The smile she occasionally displayed was purely decorative.
She knows people will judge her before they have even read
Her story because they’re too caught up in their own narrative.
They only take the time to read your book once you are dead.
They say we’re born alone and die alone.
As humans we are built to survive and consume.
Even if you are raised from a loving home.
You can still feel out of place in your own living room.