This Book Belongs To:

This Book Belongs To: The girl who has a voice but won't speak. At least never of the things that matter. Endless chatter. Mediocre chatter. With people who only look at her with their hollow promise of their never-lasting gaze. Yet, with each look she's amazed. So pathetically crazed with her thoughts of being loved. So, each time... she's amazed. As if they're never lasting gaze... these people who look at her. Maybe they'll turn the chatter into substance and gather the tiny Secrets which she scattered. The rough and the tattered. Maybe they won't see past her. But see beyond all the clatter. They'll hear her endless chatter of nothing. All of those "it doesn't matter" and never confronting. Perhaps this time they won't look at her or see past her. Instead they'll hear her. Hear the sadness in her laughter. When they look at her they would see past the delicate Ensemble of an actor. Draped over every disaster. Every disaster which guided her faster. Faster. Faster. Faster. Hearing how each had led her to master how to hide in her stature. Taught her to plaster over all the things she craved. Perhaps they'll see beyond this plaster? Beyond each disaster leaving her depraved? Harrowing how each time her attackers left unscathed. Always taking with them their never-lasting gaze. She couldn't help but be crazed. Lamentful yet amazed. Here after she simply blamed herself. Now rather than chatter. Her endless chatter. Her mediocre chatter of things that would never ever matter. She has learned to refrain. For, she has a voice but should not speak. She is meant to be meek. They will only like her if she is weak.