She was a dollhouse.
Pretty doors, adorned windows.
She knew it since she was young, everybody loves pretty, everybody loves cool.
Hence she couldn't dare to let anyone open the door.
It was tightly closed hiding terrible secrets, ugly lies
Those who had opened had left.
They had left, leaving her with nothing but chaos and broken pieces.
Even if the house inside was ugly, her intentions were pure.
But none of them could understand her furniture.
Thus she had sadness living in places sadness shouldn't live.
In her yard, a garden of emptiness had been planted and the flowers that would bloom there were called loneliness.
The sun had set long ago, and the house was covered in a perpetual dawn.
A fog of anguish rose from the ground, making her suffocate in desperation.
The house was then again hit by a storm.
Maybe after so many downfalls and recommences, there was no strength left to rebuild.
Was this how her life would end?
Lying on the bathtube filled with water
With a blade in one hand and the pills in the other?
There were no stars in the sky, but she would look up imagining their luster.
She would look up wishing she was them.
She would then read somewhere "after every storm there's a rainbow".
But in her sky, the sun would never shine.
Her sky was always cloudy.
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