There was a girl the age of eight,
who everyone tried to hate
as much as they could, as much as they wanted.
They thought her ugly like a beast,
and on her misery they’d feast.
All to let her know she was unwanted.

The girls in class hit her, while the boys called her names.
They toyed with her feelings and called it a game.
She learned to go with their pranks, and to laugh along at her misery.
But why they chose her to be their personal pet would to her remain a mystery.

There was a girl the age of twelve,
who spent her days inside a hell
that no one saw, that no one ever believed in.
Her wrists were damaged, bruised and cut,
her door was always locked and shut,
so that nobody would notice her bleeding.

Her innocence was stolen from her by a boy twice her age.
Her parents didn’t want the world to know, so they locked her in a cage.
She blamed herself for all the bad things that happened in her world.
They found it pitiful that she was lonely, this broken little girl.

There was a girl the age of fifteen,
who thought the world rotten and mean.
She was convinced that no one noticed her hurting.
Her nights were long as years,
and she painted them with tears,
as her world gradually stopped turning.

She told herself she was alright,
that it’s only blood, and she has more to spare
that the pills that helped her sleep at night also helped her not to care.
That as long as no one could see how broken down she was inside
then she’d be able to continue as before, hurting as she cried.

There was a girl the age of eighteen,
who spent her days inside a daydream
that no one saw, that no one ever believed in.
Well, neither did she,
she knew it wasn’t real,
but it was her only means to stop herself from bleeding.

Her heart was barely beating after being torn apart
by the man who swore he loved her, just to leave her after dark.
Her parents left her world right after she had left their home.
And now, she had nobody, she was all alone.

There’d be a girl the age of twenty,
with memories and feelings plenty,
but she played with all her knives and pills too often.
They had all told her she should go,
so she died a year ago,
wishing that she would be forgotten.

Her life was stolen from her by people that she never knew.
The question had remained, why did they hate her? She never had a clue.
Nobody cried, nobody smiled, nobody even cared.
But had she been there to see that, she’d be glad, for once, repaired.