She was as pale as a blank page,
Waiting for words to be written,
She was waiting to be colored,
She was an empty glass of magic.
She was all drained and dry.
Her skin, peeled off white, fell away,
Her colors left her a shade lighter,
She woke up every day,
Like a ghost out of her body,
Her blood was a threat to her fire.
It was fuel to the burning emotions.
It was a monster eating her up inside.
She was a threat to herself.
She was a threat, a ticking bomb they said,
As much as she seemed dead.
She would bite you off, steer clear!
They ran, they hated, and they laughed.
Her weapons were lost in her head.
All she did was stand there, a harmless ghost.
The words she needed ran away from her.
She was a warrior, in need of rescuing,
She looked for life, and it laughed at her,
She saw life running in every direction,
And she ran behind it, every day.
Trying to catch it and bottle it up inside her.
She ran looking for herself in the lost directions.
But she is a warrior, isn’t she?
What if the warrior needed an escape?
What if they are the ones they need to rescue?
Warriors fall sick, they fall down.
They need picking up too,
Warriors break themselves,
They need to be healed.
What if their own cure they shall brew?
What if they are bleeding to death?
They need rescuing too!
What if they have to be the one’s
To come to their own rescue?