She is one of the beautifully broken girls, the ones with the pretty eyes and soft touch and a howling heart. With star-shards embedded in their bones. And hidden scars underneath black garments.
 
She is a girl with a pale face. Her heart is beating fast. Faster than it should. She flutters her eyelids and tears escape, falling, like rain, upon the dirty streets.
 
Last night she stole the moon and inked it on her skin. Now she’s bleeding silver, from a broken ribcage. Because the boy she loves so much, the ghost-boy with the pretty smile, is miles away, even when standing next to her. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t always speak loudly or because her eyes empty-out completely sometimes.
 
Maybe it’s because, unlike the stories, it’s the doctors who give you the poison and you take it voluntarily and no one can break the spell. No prince nor princess can save her from her curse.
Maybe girls like her are only meant to drift between dreams and don’t really belong here. Maybe they are meant to live as poems. Or maybe, just maybe, they are the ones that make the world more beautiful, more colourful and alive. Just maybe…