Just Her

By Alissa Aronson

Beautiful was her calling
Or so the whispers said
No one would ever compare to
All the voices that lay in her head
Her ups became her downs
Racing and ranting so
Problems turned into promises
Her thoughts stuck in a deep limbo
Pointed fingers often lingered
And her mind was slowly awoken
She played victim to the masses
Still brittle and slightly broken
Her mind was not her own
Damaged in so many ways
Her moon was filled with lasting nightmares Her happiness slowly drifting away
Excuses became a blame game
Painting her fears with Bipolar
Still she’d rise each dawn
Like a lonely little love song
Smiling all the while
Knowing this was simply just her

Alissa Aronson grew up in Framingham, MA, “I had instilled in me the love of the arts at an early age, by my artist father,” she says. “I vividly recall penning numerous short stories in elementary school.” Alissa worked briefly as a freelance journalist and has continued writing short stories.