Thin strands of black hair run across the pale face that belonged to a stranger, who walked along sides of the road, wondering what it would be like to lay in the road, wishing for a special death. The heart of the stranger had shattered and been repaired millions of times, and would be for a million more times. Maybe they were just handing out invitations to those who hurt. Scars broke the perfection on once beautiful and clear skin. Opaque black hoodies and jeans covered every inch of scarred skin. Who can hide a scarred heart, though? A scarred personality, and a scarred mentality.
"We aren't so different." Some say, but they are wrong. Who could ever be like the stranger? The stranger hides inside their mind and inside their box. They refuse to be released. Hidden along side their only friend, which is sad to say, themselves. It isn't too sad to them, though. They only understand they, just as you understand you best, and he understands he best. Maybe the stranger enjoys it this way, and maybe that stranger is me.
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