I liked to watch her
when they'd begin to turn on her
and she'd cut them short with a dry humoured remark.
Or when her eyes burned as people openly broke
promises and spilled her secrets for all to see.
At first I thought I liked it
when her hands where splashed scarlet
though no one around her was injured
and her sleeves where down.
Then I realised it was better when she beat them to the ground
and splayed their blood around.
They said she began to loose it
when the drugs took over her soul
- I dont think she ever had it
Therefore the drugs just made her whole.
A whole with dark bags, and trackmarks in arms
and other parts of her anatomy unknown.
Although, certainly not unknown to everyone.
They said she'd done a lot of shit with a lot of people
Especially people already taken.
One of the reasons she was so hated.
But they never saw her, did they?
in the art room after school?
She'd switch on some music and dance around
While I finished the never found
homework in the corner. And watch her out the corner
of my fascinated eye.
Sometimes she wrote lyrics, and performed them to me
Accompanied by air guitar and table-drumming
Sometimes it was a real guitar, real strumming
I learnt her
like from a book
But they never knew her.
Never gave her the chance.
Even at the funeral.
They dismiss the coffin
At a glance.
But I,
I looked deeper.
And I think I understood
That terrible cliche
So misunderstood
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