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He was leaving. She was nothing short of a beautiful mess. She always was. She was sick of it. Her happiness was from a pill. From a Bottle. From the end of a cancer-stick. A lie. Pain drew her. She drew life from Pain. She wanted it to forsake her. She wanted to just push everything away and be that one child who could dance freely in the rain, or play with a bit of string, or type something in which her words would be deemed by someone else. She was nothing short of a beautiful mess. She always was. She was sick of it. Her happiness was from a pill. From a Bottle. From the end of a cancer-stick. A lie. She was sick. He said so. She didn't bother trying to hide. She didn't bother trying to protect the mind. She was ailing. And nothing she can do will fix it. She was nothing short of a beautiful mess. She always was. She was sick of it. Her happiness was from a pill. From a Bottle. From the end of a cancer-stick. A lie. She never meant to hurt anyone. But the more she shoves her friends away, the more they are drawn to her. She can't breathe without hurting herself, or hurting anyone. She's screaming but no one hears, yet in silence cannot be ignored. She was nothing short of a beautiful mess. She always was. She was sick of it. Her happiness was from a pill. From a Bottle. From the end of a cancer-stick. A lie. Yet somewhere out there, to someone the bottle is always more beautiful when broken.