She's got blood stained fingernails, and burnt lungs.
She's got a craving for lust in her eyes.
And a fire for love in her veins.
She's got her eyes set on the prize.
The boy who could win her heart.
And vindicated her from all her sins.
She sits alone in a blank room,
With white walls waiting for her to dream up,
All her hopes, and memories.
With eyes on the prize,
She thinks a little harder, breaths a little deeper.
The thoughts find their way onto her page.
Words become sentences, sentences become phrases.
And the rest becomes history
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