She is..

This is her. She who is invisible, yet so painfully obvious that she was always noticed. She who is hated by all, yet loved by so many that she nearly drowns in it. She who is so beautiful that no one can stand to look at her. She who is so caring that people think she's selfish. She who loves writing so much that she's run out of words. she whose blood stains the faces of the fallen and who mourns every death, yet threatens every life. She who loves, and hates, and is dead, and yet, still lives. This is her.

Silence

The stares, the whispers
the silence, the laughter,
the wisher, the dreamer,
the hater, the liar.
The abuser, the bully,
the tears and the broken,
the unwanted and used,
the words left unspoken.
The darkness, the shadows,
the bruised and the bleeding,
the judged and excluded,
the homeless, the needing.
The small and invisible,
the wounded, the hiding,
the bet and the profit,
the dead and the dying.
The things they aren't saying,
And the things we aren't writing.

My name is Ella.

     I am 15 years old. I have a mother, a father, and a little sister named Penelope. I have two bedrooms, and two homes to live in, because mom and dad are divorced. I am beautiful and popular despite my style and my natural tendency to be annoying. On facebook, I have over 1,000 friends, including my entire family. I have a 4.0 in school, and a scholarship to Harvard. I am perfection on the outside.
      My name is Ella. I am 16 years old. I am insane and suicidal. There are four of me, four people in my head, four trains of thought and four suicides to plan. At my dad's house I am abused, he throws things at me, and beats me with glass bottles half full of beer mixed with rum. At my mom's, I am told I am not good enough, even though I try my best. I have no self esteem, and all my friends lie to me. I wish there was someone there. I am perfection on the outside, and broken on the inside.
      My name is Ella. I am 17 years old. I almost went to a mental hospital. My family still doesn't care. My birthday was yesterday, and they forgot. I am alone, not even my friends know. They are all fake anyway. I started writing poetry today. It's full of blood and knives. I am still perfection on the outside. Broken on the inside. Ripped apart a little further down.
     My name is Ella. I turned 18 today. I met a boy, and he helps. He makes it seem.. Not so bad. I love him. I hope he loves me back. Perfection on the outside, healing on the inside, still bleeding a little further down, and full of love on another level.
     My name is Ella. I am 25. He hurt me. He lied, and cheated, and stole my heart. He ripped me up into a million pieces and then set me on fire. I hope he's happy now. Perfect on the outside, broken on the inside, insane a little further down, and still in love with him.
     My name is Ella. This is my suicide note. I'm done, and now, I'm broken on the outside.

Smileyface??

I have to say, that sitting in a room with your mom, your sister, and your mum's boyfriend can only be fun when your boyfriend is around. Thank whoever for amazing people like him. <3

Secrets

Would you walk upon my shallow grave,

Leave flowers by the stone,

Or would you take my shining jewels,

And leave me all alone?

Would you walk among the people,

Gathered in this solemn hall,

Or count the jewels and waken,

Bloody words against the wall.

Would you stand above my casket,

With that oath you swore to swear,

Pretending like you always did,

To love, and laugh, and care.

Would you cry behind your fingers,

In the darkness of the night,

To long that I was there again,

To make your life just right.

Was it you who took my treasure,

My family and friends,

Or did you stop and realize,

That love just never ends.

Would you keep my favorite dolly

And lay upon the bed,

The salty tears are flowing,

And your eyes are turning red.

Did you ever start to wonder,

If I'd haunt you day by day,

If I'd follow you and whisper,

'Bout the debt you have to pay.

That night you watched me standing,

With a gun against my breast,

When blood shines bright against the wall,

Would you lay me down to rest.

And as you read this solemn tale,

Hold this thought within your head:

What secrets would you want to tell,

If you were forthwith Dead.