Worth a Thousand.
I’m not your perfect picture; I’m not your favorite song. I’m not the hand to hold. ‘Not the answer to your problems, but you talk to me like I’m some hero laced in gold.
Sings the one, worthless damsel-in-distress. She needs not to be saved by a prince, but by a friend. She needs to be understood, to be reached. She was willing to give everything her all, but she was never too visible to be seen. She was suddenly forgotten. Untouchable. Unworthy of words. And explanations. And a lot of things.
She needs not to be pitied, but to be comforted. She needed someone to understand, to be with her through these badtimes. And nobody wasn’t there. The closest one to her was even the leader of the stay-away-from-her group. She was alone. Unhappy. Unreliable. And ineffective. Very ineffective.
She needs not to be reprimanded, but to be reminded. She was not faultless; she was under a lot of pressure. And guilt. Not that she cannot handle things—it’s just that she had no one there to help her. She was afraid. Wanting to end her life right there and then. But there was no way she could.
She wasn't worth a thousand words, so why was she even worth a thousand knives?
—Riezee Mae, 22 March
