She's tired. She's angry. She's lonely. She's scared. So sick of being tired, so tired of being sick. Could she be any more obvious? She screaming at the top of her lungs in a crowded room full of incoherent peers. Always screaming her lungs put, til her head starts spinning. Everyone hears, but no one listens. All she wants is a sign, a guiding force, some semblance of attention, acknowledgement, affection. Something sweet to get her by. Always screaming. Never smiling. Never laughing. Terminally confined in haunting vacancy and emptiness. With scars on her thighs, and holes in her heart, she runs. Faster and faster until she can't think, can't see, can't feel. She sees life like a carousel, spinning round and round, seeing the same things, same faces, same place. Over and over again, and when it stops, your legs feel weak and your stomach is in knots. Then again, who wants to fade into the swirling backdrop of life? Maybe if she did, she would see things a little more clearly. Always screaming, always running, never stopping, never solving. Will she ever find her calming inner peace?
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