Weeping
silently
clutching the useless scraps of paper
folded so many times,
ink smudged and worn.
On her face can be read
the mask of one who will always answer
"nothing's wrong"
when everything is.
How does all the bad in the world
know where to find her?
The demons of despair rack her bitter form
and hopelessness quivers on every limb.
But I cannot tell her to be happy
because her life is hinged on gloom.
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