Broken porcelain dolls
Little girls who dreams were stolen away.
Standing in the yawning wind at dawn
looking up at me
Crying blood streams that are puddling at my feet.
They each want me to read their stories they've carved on their delicate wrist.
But they are no stories
All I see is the word HATE, HATE, HATE!
Carved onto each pale skin wrist.
They're dying for attention
Dying for love
Dying for someone who can fill their cracks in their heart wounds.
They're just dying for their lost dreams that were stolen away by the demons who dared said their dreams are worthless.