She sits alone.
She sometimes likes it that way.
She locks the door
Even though she knows the other girls are already asleep
And don't understand her
The way she would like.

She writes to feel her feelings
Stare right back at her.
She sometimes likes to scar herself
Even though she knows her innate truths
And tries desperately to run toward them.

She would like to be free.
Have a whole new set of restrictions
Set by a whole new world
Willing to welcome all of her.

All she needs is a ticket.
A one way ticket on a one way street.
A language where "tormented soul" translates to
"Guest of honor".
Where fear is a window to climb through,
Not a wall to lean on in futility.

She sits alone.
Accompanied by hordes of "what-ifs" and "somedays".
Waiting impatiently for one to
Break
Down
Her barred door and morph into the
Perfect Opportunity.