She danced about the room like a feather in dry air and her features beamed with liberation and youth. The gray walls became painted pale blues and violets at her expense. Her movements molded the room around her, and it then was hers. Such power she had to make things her own. White sheets draped to the floor solemnly as she sunk into the bed.

The screen falls black and she is somewhere mediocre. Left to right; graffiti done by pens and imbeciles, and a steady yellow flicker of light. The people around her tapped their pencils with angst, but the rhythmic patterns didn’t bother her. Instead she let them transport her. She didn’t want to be here. And her longing for change was like God’s hand to Adam’s.

Friends picked her up at 4 a.m just to drive. They talk so much without saying anything and make others feel small. The sky is dark and clouds texture the blackness, but to her the street lights dance purple. And she says it looks purple.

“It looks purple.” And she is made small. She surrounded herself with people who weren’t as fascinating, and she was compromised.

Marbled and distorted colors danced above her head as a record played; something trashy. She took a sip and it burned going down. The room overflowed with chaos and commotion, but she remained completely still. The noise was splintering and loud, yet she heard only smooth, steady pulses. Nothing more than soft whispers.

“Get up, girl. You’re missing the party.” Her green eyes gave him a velvety smile.

“You know I’d rather be here.”

“You’re mad.”

Days later he was looking into those green velvet eyes and caressing the small of her back. It’s funny how Picasso's paintings sold for nothing at the beginning of his career. He didn’t understand that his art was worth so much more than a price named by a white man with straight teeth and big money.

Large snakes in glass cages made a good backdrop for rebellion. You’re at a zoo, you can monkey around. Hand in hand they ran and he had devils liquor in him and her eyes were bloodshot and glossy. Snakes slithered and dirty sneakers skid to closets and soon enough they were lost together until they were found.

But she was still alone. No one knew what or who she had gotten into, but here she was. In her bathroom. Thick red. Thick and black and blue and red and in pain. White stained red. Red light on green eyes and pale skin, but always and utmost red.

The world beat down on her like she beat down on herself. Pounding down on the glass figurine that they were used to seeing right through; pounding down until she shattered. They told her late at night when all she needed was some love, some hope, some reassurance, that she was made up of her poor decisions and nothing more. But she had ideas. She had ideas that flowered into bigger ideas and built up and up into a tall, tall tower that eventually came crashing and crumbling and baning down. But the paint of her artificial smile stayed intact.

So she carried on with her ways. Her room was lit dim now and the air was hot and dense. And she remembered kissing at a party.  She remembered crowds of white kids with straight teeth and big money yelping desperately, “the youth will always win”. And it hurt. And it was painful, but she always felt that pain; it had always been there. She looked at herself in her mirror with heavy heart and loss of breath.

She traced her silhouette on that mirror to try to decide who she was. And she saw herself but she didn’t understand what she was seeing. And she didn’t know what to do so she took light and took it fast and burned a hole in the skin that was touched by too many.

She asked herself, “What is it you plan to do with your wild and precious life?”

And she realized she wouldn't have to feel anymore if she ended it.

The room was spinning as she reached that snow white hand into the cabinet to take a bottle. Tears mangled her vision and she felt herself becoming weak. She let herself breakdown. She had cracked, and this time, she was too fragile, too tired, to lost to put her own pieces back together.

She took something for herself; something she would never give back. And the world grew to miss her light and they acknowledged it was there for a change and realized how they’d done her wrong.

A grey hand draped to the floor solemnly as her corpse sank into the bed.