The Red Stripes Poem by Daisy Lyne Thakerby

She was not a fashionable girl,
says the single pair of ratty tennis shoes
slouching in the closet floor;
But, an artist, says the dark, demented
paintings hanging on the wall.
She liked to keep to herself, say the stacks
of reread books in the corner.
The razer hidden beneat the bed says
where the flaming red stripes on her skin came from.
She was a girl who lost hope,
and that just couldn't take the lonliness, says the limip, cold
body with an empty pill bottle laying on its side.