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Slowly, the girl who died reveals herself,
Shyly and slyly,
She offers a piece of herself,
A small and dinky part of her brain,
Maybe for no one, or maybe for someone else.
Enough is enough.
She wants to be relieved
By the clasps of trepidation and melancholy.
She gets a 32-foot-tall ladder
And enters her mind—no fear, no damage.
“Here, have this,” to the closest ones, she says,
And there, on the table, sits part of her cerebrum,
There for everyone to examine.
She just wants to be free from
And turn a new leaf from this.
With her totality exposed,
She no longer felt enclosed.
Even if just a few really knew her,
She put it out there,
No doubts to cloud her.
Not everyone needed to get her, she concurred.
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