Metaphor

I looked at her head on. The girl was a technicolor entity far from home and a long ways away from death. She wore a yellow sundress and her hair was long and wavy. She had on white socks, but no shoes. And she was crying. 

Her cheeks were rosy as she looked out at me; clenching and unclenching her hand. No one spoke as I nervously combed through my ratty, wavy locks. We had the same dark, sad eyes and ashen skin. And the same unspoken sharpness. 

Her lips dribbled, like she was going to utter a penance. I took a step closer. She took a step back. I called, for her to tell me anything; for her to say something. She only looked up with those same sad eyes. And my heart began to cease beating. 

Finally, she spoke.

"This isn't how I want to be."

Suddenly her image was gone and I sunk to my knees, weary and beat. Neither do I, I whisper out to the essence of her. 

Of me. 

Once so little and so sad. 

Now, not much different.