The Invisible

At last, the loner; all alone
Like a nomad, she has no place to call her own
She repels those around her, or so it may seem
Inside her, a unique case of low self esteem

You might not be able to recognize her
For outward appearances can be deceiving, I’m sure
Which one is she, you ask
She’s the one wearing the mask

We all have something dirty behind our skin
Some filthy, wretched, unshakable sin
Hers is one of the worst kinds of weeds
For she goes home, and at night, she bleeds

Obsidian is all she uses, never a knife
To spill pain and blood; the symbol of life
When she has within her soul no hope
This is the only way she knows to cope

© Melissa Chrowl

this is a poem i wrote in my junior year. i’m now a freshman in college.