You Can Leave If I were a book, I'd a have a soft, blue cover without a photo And gold letters on the binding With yellowing pages, and a crumpled index It'd have so many chapters, and two different parts: Happy and Depressed It'd be an indie book, unknown by many Lacking clichés, and Something magnificent about its main character So many villains for our protagonist, though many don't know how bad they are The main character, she would be bland girl, living on America's Golden Coast, in the Golden state She'd have massive amounts of character development— She used to be a girl, though grew up much too early. She'd be happy and foolish and Carefree in the first part, but by the second. . . She'd be mature, and Would like to do things by herself She wouldn't ask for help, she'd keep it to herself She'd keep a smile on her face, Just for the cameras. She wouldn't be like the other girls, Who cut their wrists and slit their throats She'd question it, wondering. . . Do I have it? She wasn't bullied, no She grew up, with lies, and false trust She learned that you can't trust anyone She built up walls, and lied endlessly "I'm fine." She became hostile "Fuck you." She became bipolar, and maintained her emotions unless alone She lashed out at those who provoked her Our little main character Wanted to hide, away from the people away from the crowds away from the lies and smiles She'd contemplate things, yes, she would But never acted on it Our little main character: Cold, Analytical, Observant, Quiet, Sarcastic, Cruel, Blunt, Uninterested, Fake. . . Fake as fuck. And the book, Wouldn't have an ending only blank pages, slowly filling with meaningless words She'd be waiting Waiting for someone to tell her You have it, or Time's up. You can leave.