Little Lonely Girl
Bus number three.
Bus number three. It's 7:05 and I get on.
First, second, third, fourth station. I lost count. A rather large group of kids gets on the bus. Then she catches my eyes.
She was of average height. I believe I was taller than her by a few centimetres. Around the age of thirteen she was, maybe fourteen. She had long, blonde hair picked up in a high ponytail. This girl had sky-coloured eyes that seemed to me so sorrowful; two windows of a tortured soul. She always had two earplugs - one in each ear - to block out the world. It didn't want to listen to her - why should she bother listening to its poisonous words, right?
She was so pretty. With fair skin, full lips and a beauty mark above the left corner of her upper lip, she looked beautiful. She also seemed like a really nice, polite girl. Like a broken, torn up little porcelain doll.
Two other girls got on the bus at the same station with her, and the three seemed to be going to the same school - judging by the clothes. The three wore knee length skirts, making it obvious they attended a religious school - though they didn't look religious at all. I figured they were those young Russian girls that get sent to religious schools for no practical reason.
They didn't look anything like her, though. Slightly tanned skin, tall and skinny. Long, dull straightened hair and spark-less boring brown eyes. They both ignored her. Looked at her as if she weren't good enough for them. They infuriated me so much.
But the young lonely girl didn't seem to mind it.
Maybe she did, deep inside and behind that poker face.
Oh, how I wished to know more about that little heart-broken young girl. How much I wanted to reach out to her and tell her it'd be all right. To never let anything get to her, not to worry and to live her life to the fullest.
How I wished she wouldn't end up twisted and scarred like me.
First, second, third, fourth station. I lost count. A rather large group of kids gets on the bus. Then she catches my eyes.
She was of average height. I believe I was taller than her by a few centimetres. Around the age of thirteen she was, maybe fourteen. She had long, blonde hair picked up in a high ponytail. This girl had sky-coloured eyes that seemed to me so sorrowful; two windows of a tortured soul. She always had two earplugs - one in each ear - to block out the world. It didn't want to listen to her - why should she bother listening to its poisonous words, right?
She was so pretty. With fair skin, full lips and a beauty mark above the left corner of her upper lip, she looked beautiful. She also seemed like a really nice, polite girl. Like a broken, torn up little porcelain doll.
Two other girls got on the bus at the same station with her, and the three seemed to be going to the same school - judging by the clothes. The three wore knee length skirts, making it obvious they attended a religious school - though they didn't look religious at all. I figured they were those young Russian girls that get sent to religious schools for no practical reason.
They didn't look anything like her, though. Slightly tanned skin, tall and skinny. Long, dull straightened hair and spark-less boring brown eyes. They both ignored her. Looked at her as if she weren't good enough for them. They infuriated me so much.
But the young lonely girl didn't seem to mind it.
Maybe she did, deep inside and behind that poker face.
Oh, how I wished to know more about that little heart-broken young girl. How much I wanted to reach out to her and tell her it'd be all right. To never let anything get to her, not to worry and to live her life to the fullest.
How I wished she wouldn't end up twisted and scarred like me.