Isolatia Poem by Amouta Stardancer

In pain,
she struggled,
to her sacred place,
3 walls, a door,
a little cramped space,
just a small bathroom stall,
in the middle of the day.
Where she goes,
where she cries,
alone,
unmissed,
from her study hall.
The graffiti,
is her literature.
The toilet,
her throne,
there is her kingdom,
in that stall all alone.
Black marker,
a weaved tapestry,
over all the walls,
in that lonely end stall.
Little hearts, and flowers,
scralling letters,
“Jane Hinkle Must Die! ! ! ”
“Brody is HHHOOTTT! ! ! ”
“Jeff Rizzo, Oh My! ”
She knew them all,
every last word,
memorized within,
her mind.
Her blood, her sweat,
her tears,
had stained those walls,
those walls that were,
her only friends,
the door that was,
her saviour,
the latch that was,
her God,
keeping the rest of the world out.
But that day,
in pain, she struggled,
through the door,
how hurtful girls can be,
and in those walls,
behind that door,
upon her throne,
no one missing her,
she gave up.
She cut away her pain,
and left it on the walls,
that walls she’d never written on,
but loved so dearly,
striped with her crimson blood,
and that is how they found her,
and that is where she died,
and where everyone,
ceased to remember her,
but the walls,
of that end bathroom stall.