She admires the damage in others
Her twisted form of jealousy.
The breaking of a heart
And the touch of a razor blade
The only true pain she has ever known.
Her heart reaches for broken souls
Taking them into her cold embrace
To amend for her sick envy...
Her infatuation
Her melancholy
Her rage.
Her guilt for being ordinary
Knows no bounds.
As she clings to injured hands
Wishing to heal them
But secretly...
Wanting to be like them.
Her reason for which
Is still Unknown.