There once was a girl with gold-spun hair

There once was a girl with gold-spun hair,
Who talked and laughed and sang without care.

She loved large and she grinned and she gave,
In the end, her heart she could not save.

They took from her, piece by fucking piece,
Until she begged and screamed it to cease.

And now she sits alone in her room,
Quiet, quiet, no sound, not a boom.

She wasn’t always lonely, you see,
But she got hurt and was forced to flee.

Away from all that she held so dear,
Alone and silent, her greatest fear.

Not smart or worth, she wasn’t enough,
Instead of sad, it just made her rough.

Her walls were thick, but her eyes downcast,
She locked her true self and shoved it past.

She used to have friends, the thought hurts her,
To have and then not, her fault incur.

Or was it them, the cruelty of,
Gaining ones trust to falsify love.

If she allows herself to open,
To try again, to not be broken.

The pain is great, too scary, too real,
To lose herself has lost all appeal.

Heart aches, her sadness etched across glass,
The hurt her chest e’er present, alas.

The silence that surrounds her injures,
And speaking her thoughts aloud hinders.

Has nothing, is nothing, to no one.
Not a smile, not a light, only shun.

Bare shell of what was, no one to care,
Where did she go, she can’t breathe in air.

In her bedroom she sits in shadow,
Where no one can see her skin sallow.

What became of her, where did she go,
When did the blow of life force her low?

No one talks to her, or gives her thought,
They don’t see who she was, or care naught.

Worst part of all, is that she still tries,
Reaches out, her arm outstretched and cries.

Not a lifeboat in sight, nor a hand,
Sinks in the dark, she can’t understand.

What of love made so undeserving,
She's tired and weary and hurting.

No one to talk to, only stories,
fiction, where characters understand.

The unreal is keeping her alive,
Warm falsities that help her survive.

She isn’t sure why things are this way,
Another day gone without a say.

Peter Pan had it wrong, when ventured,
To die would be a big adventure.

Perhaps to die, would be a release,
Turning disappointment into peace.

There once was a girl with gold-spun hair,
Who talked and laughed and sang without care.