Well you know she's the kind of girl you hear about in the stories. A figment of the mind with traces of reality flowing through her veins. She was always seen with tears in her eyes, with smiles on the side, and a longing sense of hope in between. Those veins had been beaten. Her mind had been eaten by the very prospect of another life. And she still stumbles across the concrete with razors in her hands. Well I know this girl. I KNOW HER FOR WHO SHE IS. When she was told she wasn't good enough, she took that to heart, and I took that to hear, and I felt the pain he had, and I beat those veins she had. AND I ALWAYS TELL HER, "IT'LL BE ALRIGHT, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT, I AM HERE." I don't think she heard. She heard only the slow trickle of that venomous drink that spilled greedily down her throat. She heard only the soft whoosh of smoke as it was sucked down her lungs and was blown in a furious GALE back out again. She heard only the loud scream and soft sighs of the music she loved so dear and listened to so loudly in an attempt to never hear her own thoughts again. And she felt only the slow sliding of a cold BLADE across her skin. And that BLADE drew forth from her everything she had once been, drew forth her past in her sorrows and brought them into full light before me. She'd scream, "NO, STAY AWAY FROM ME!" She didn't plead or beg. But still they persisted. Well I know this girl who despite the hardships has the softest skin I know. She has the brownest of eyes that in the sunlight glow. She has a crooked smile that is the most straight and TRUE I have seen. But only I have seen these TRUE smiles. She hides the rest. Stores them away in old crates and at the bottom of laundry hampers, pulling them out at the end of the week only when she has no other choice. And I know the girl who forced herself to fill the holes with all manner of things. Who forced herself to sew up her stitches with her own bare and bloodied fingers because no one else would. She would seek comfort and would seek solace in cancerous amenities, weakening her already fragile mind and body to the unforgiving world. And I know this girl now. Odd from the start but beautiful in her own way. I see the lines along her body and remember the way I had traced my own. And I run my hands along those scars and whisper softly, "It'll be alright." I whisper softly, "Sleep tight." And she's happy to. She's happy to get away and dream of a new day. But I don't want her to fall asleep. I want her awake, alive, screaming, "THIS IS MY LIFE, AND I AM READY TO LIVE IT." But if she drifts, I will be right with her, holding her hand and whispering, "You are my flower, and the most beautiful in the sunlight. And I won't let the weeds and the pests get to your roots. I'll shade you and feed you and water you until you've grown into the most beautiful rose, peony, petunia, daisy, lily, pimpernel, tulip, carnation, ANYTHING YOU WANT TO BE, DARLING. Just as long as you're mine to grow." Well I know this girl and I'll know her still. And I'll love her still. And I'll show her I can fill all the holes. I'll show her I can be all her love. She doesn't have to hide that smile She won't be hurt anymore And I hope she has known all the while I am her everything held in store Well I am happy to know this girl. And even through the tears I've cried, through the floors I've pounded, through the smashed glass, through the endless SCREAMS.......... into the night. I know she is mine. To have and to hold. Through richer or poorer. For better or for worse. Through no legal document objectifying our love other than a hand delivered note, given in the dead of winter, and sealed with the red lipstick of a soft kiss. I am happy to know this girl. I am happy not to say, "have known".