She.

The flower oozed a sickly sweet perfume as its leaves crumpled and then withered.
She developed a liking for post-it-notes on which she wrote little bits of nothing and everything.
She liked to pass time watching glitter fall outside of her window from her open hand, watching it drift and sparkle as it caught rays of light.
She listened to a song about a little lion man and tried to make harmonies to it. It was a rare occasion that she let anyone hear her sing, even her close family.
But secretly she thought she was an ok singer.
She collected the notes and scraps of paper which she scrawled her ideas, words, and lyrics on as sometimes inspiration struck in the middle of the night. She kept all these words, her thoughts, in an envelope tacked to her wall so she would remember.
She read books that she loved, but also frustrated her with their happily ever afters which seemed to rarely occur in real life.
She listened to music which she could sing along to, and mostly didn't like a song until she knew it well enough to follow.
She liked quotes and poems which meant something to her, she liked it when they related to her own feelings.
She wrote poems as well.
About her feelings, experiences, things that she wished would or wouldn't happen.
She liked drawing, but often thought she wasn't good at it, even after admiring some of her own work.
She kept many notebooks with her poems and other poetry, thoughts, feelings and experiences.
Like with her post-it-notes, these things came to her just as she was about to sleep, so she would often drag her subconsciousness from beneath its curtain of darkness to jot things down.

Alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe ,myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
Excerpt from "I Am Much To Alone In This World, Yet Not Alone" - Rainer Maria Rilke.

The Fight.

With every fight,
She feels herself
losing control.
Each fight a step closer
to unleashing the words
that she knows
are aching to get out.
She feels them,
speaks them in her head,
tastes them on her lips,
breathes them.
But they are not spoken,
they are never spoken.
As they wriggle and squirm,
trying to sneak past,
she presses her lips together.
Fighting the battle,
that endlessly rages on,
inside her.